LIBRARY OF CONgSI 

V^^^5^ II 

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Shelf. i.iA.j.5^ 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD, 

AND OTHER POEMS. 



THE 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WOELD, 



AND OTHER POEMS. 



33 



BY 



l/ 

JOHN J. McGIRR. 



Ars longa, vita brei'is. 



Set' ITjai: 



BOSTON: 

ALFRED MUDGE & SON, 

24 Frankiin Street. 

1886. 






Kntered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1885, 

By J. J. McGIRR, 
In the Ottice of the Librarian of Congrest", at Washington. 



P E E F A C E 



TT seems to be customary for authors, especially poets, to 

state that their writings are but the " children of an 

idle hour," and were not originally intended for publication. 

I cannot claim the lenienc}- of the public on this g:ound, 
and I wrote with the intention of publication, and hoping 
to obtain at least a small share of that ignis fcttuus — fame. 
If my song seems at times disconnected or inharmonious, I 
beg the reader to remember the circumstances under which 
it was written In my struggle for bread, I am compelled 
to work from early morn until late at night ; so most of my 
writing was done while "the world was asleep," and when 
my mind, weary from work and ill health, was not fit for 
the task laid upon it. 

Therefore I beg the reader's charit3- ; and if my work 
brings me neither wealth nor fame, I shall be content if 
the perusal of this book shall awaken in one human heait 
a greater love and respect for_ the Holy Church. 

McKeesport, Penn., July 17, 188P. 



THE 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 



A ND now the hour has come, as was foretold 
By Christ our Saviour, in the days of old ; 
"When earth shall pass away and cease to be, 
And time be swallowed in eternity. 
For many thousand years the world has run 
In the same circuit, as it had begun, — 
The day succeeding night, and night the day. 
While ages rolled so silently away. 
But now, at night, the stars within the skies 
Grow dim, and flicker, as a lamp that dies ; 
The moon gives forth a weak and sickly light, 
Which fails to banish the dark shades of nio;ht ; 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

And when the morning breaks in eastern sky, 
The birds in welcome give no joyous ciy, 
But huslied and silent, and with drooping erect, 
Seemed filled with sorrow, and by fear oppressed. 
And now, when e'en the sun is at his height, 
Dark ominous shadows will obscure his light. 
And long before the hour of day is past. 
The shades of darkness gather thick and fast ; 
The beast of burden, on his weary way, 
Doth start and tremble in the light of day ; 
The savage brutes forsake the field and wood. 
And gather near man's'home in search of food. 
And man, the creature of a Father's love. 
For whom the Saviour left his home above, — 
Proud man ! he only of all living things 
Sees not the coming of the King of Kings, 
Hears not upon the wind Jehovah's voice. 
Which tells tdl slumbering Christians to rejoice ; 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

For now their night of death shall soon be past, 

And beauteous morcing dawn for them at last ; 

Hears not that same great voice, which, to the dead 

Who 've died repentless, speaks with meaning dread 

That their vile bodies now must join the soid. 

And pass to darkness, their eternal goal. 

Man sees the fading of the moon and stars. 

The bitter famines and the cruel wars ; 

He sees the sun itself grow pale and dim. 

And feels the very earth shake under him ; 

Yet scoffs and jeers, and has some specious name, 

Some word of science, to these things explain. 

For since the time when Luther's teaching died, 

The daughters, Infidelity and Pride, 

Outside the Church have ruled with iron rod. 

And men now worship Science as their God. 

The ties, so sacred, of the marriage state 

Are snapped at pleasure, and mankind doth mate 



10 DESTRUCTION OF THE ^YORLD, 

Like beasts, his passions wandering as the wind ; 

No God to govern, and no home to bind. 

The liark of Peter only as of yore 

Sails stead'ly onward, midst the tempests' roar ; 

Her beacon star of truth gleams fair and bright 

Amidst the darkness of this heathen night. 

With her, the marriage state is sacred still,. 

And all her children bow unto her will ; 

The cross of Jesus still is here to save, 

And light her votaries to a Christian grave. 

But soon the scoffing voice of Science dies, 

For now more ominous grow the threat'ning skies ; 

The stars, like flaming brands, flash o'er the sky, 

Then fade in darkness and obscurity ; 

While loud the ocean breaks upon the shore 

With giant fury and with hollow roar, 

And from the caverns of the mighty deep, 

AVith starling eyeballs, swift the fishes leap, 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 11 

And in their terror rush upon the hind, 

And quickly perish in the burning sand. 

For though the sun gives forth but scanty light, 

The heat is stifling, both by day and night. 

The wind no longer blows, the cloudless skies 

Refuse e'en cooling dews, and Nature cries 

Aloud in anguish for her friend, the rain, 

Who now, alas ! shall never come again. 

No more the forests sweep in proud array, 

Their banners flashing in the light of day, 

But, bent and shrivelled, on the hills they stand. 

And gaze in sorrow o'er the cheerless land. 

No more the meadows, clad in verdure green. 

Lie bright and smiling 'neath the sunlii>ht's sheen, 

But, like to fire-swept plains, stretch hot and bare, 

And seem to stifle in the heavy air. 

No more the rivers, as tlie}^ onward run. 

Like molten silver, flash beneath the sun : 



12 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

But unto stagnant pools they slowly shrink, 

When man and beast both gather, fierce for drink. 

Now from the earth there comes a sullen roar, 

Like waters breaking on a rocky shore ; 

The giant mountains, which the storms have borne 

Of years and ages, shake from base to dome ; 

And man, no longer proud, forgets to jeer, 

But, seized with terror and an awful fear. 

Cries out for mercy on his sins and pride. 

And asks the hills to fall on him and hide 

His guilty body from an angry God, 

Who comes to judge with Justice's iron rod. 

And now up from the east, like ghosts of dead, 

Two white-robed figures come with noiseless tread, 

And each one scatters, with a shadowy hand, — 

One plagues, one famine, throughout all the land. 

As snow beneath the rays of noonday sun, 

Or leaves in autumn, when the storm-kinijs come, 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 13 

So from the earth mankind is swept away 
As near approaches the hist fated day. 
The cry of children for their daily bread, 
The Avail of women o'er their loved dead, 
Goes up unceasing ; but the pitiless skies 
Seem closed to human woes and miseries. 
And still the white-robed figures onward go, 
And scatter ever suffering and woe. 

Deep in a valley opening to the west, 
Which seemed the birthplace of both peace and rest, 
A little cottage nestled all alone. 
Near trees, old, gnarled, and with moss o'ergrown. 
Here came a blushing bride, one year ago, 
Arrayed in garments whiter than the snow ; 
With cheeks of roses and a brow so fair. 
With lips of carmine and bright golden hair, — 
She seemed a being of another sphere, 
So pure and lovely did she then appear. 



14 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

Here bound together with the silken cord, 
How swift the happy day passed with her lord ! 
How bright and lovely seemed this quiet place, 
When rosy morning showed his smiling face. 
At first, far in the east, the faintest glow 
Lights up the heavens with a wand of snow. 
Now in the shadow of a wood, hard by, 
A bird awakens with a startled cry ; 
Then all again is still ; no sound is heard 
Except the forest by the east wind stirred. 
But now the glimmer in the eastern sky 
Grows bright, and tinges with a crimson dj^e 
The fleecy cloudlets, those white ships of air. 
The hills and forests and the mountains fair. 
And as the flashing speai^s of the King of Day 
Above the hilltops gleam in bright array, 
With noisy twitter and with rustling wing 
The birds awaken from their slumbering. 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 15 

Then when the fiery King appears in sight, 

With mien majestic and with flashing light, 

The birds, rejoicing at returning day, 

Pour forth in greeting a loud, happy lay. 

Here, too, at noonday, when the burning heat 

Drives man and beast to seek some cool retreat. 

How sweet and pleasant 'neatli the shady trees 

Fell on the ear the hum of thrifty bees. 

The buzz of insects, and the crickets' song, 

Which from the meadow rose the whole day long ; 

While from a distant wood, the cooing dove 

Called to his partner in a voice of love. 

And then, at evening, when the shadows cool. 

Like peace from heaven, fall on God's footstool, 

How calm and holy seemed this valley fair. 

With breath of roses scenting all the air. 

Here at their cottage door, when day Avas done, 

Sat wife and husband, while the setting sun 
2 



16 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

Bathed all the hilltops in its golden light, 

While in the valley crept the shades of night. 

Then when the sun's great queen, with beauteous face, 

Bathed in her splendor all this lovely place. 

Here in the valley, clasped their wedded hands, 

This couple wandered to a bridge that spans 

A little streamlet, flowing toward the sea. 

As our lives speed unto eternity. 

Here, standing on the bridge, what lovely scene 

Lay just before them 'neath the moonlight's sheen : 

High in the cloudless sky the, moon rode bright. 

And filled the valley with her silver light. 

As waves of ocean, flashing 'neath the sun. 

Above all brightness, while beneath is none ; 

So stood the forest, white beneath the moon, — 

Above all glory, while below was gloom. 

Here through the valley, whispering soft and low, 

Where maiden daisies on its banks did grow, 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 17 

A little streamlet, with its low refrain, 
Swift hurried onward to the distant maiu. 
While from the branches of a tree near })y, 
The bird of sadness* uttered his weird cry. 
The hour so 'witching and the scene so fair 
Threw spell of sorrow o 'er this wedded pair, — 
Such sadness as we feel when day is done. 
And slowly sinks to rest the lordly sun ; 
A sense of loss, yet deep and sweeter far 
Than all the joy when we triumphant are. 

•r 

This shade of sadness brought into each heart 
A dim remembrance that we all must part ; 
And as our loved ones grow dearer still 
When any danger threatens them with ill ; 
So did this shadow of the coming years. 
Which in each soul roused many hopes and fears, 

* O.wl. 



18 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

Fill these two hearts with transports fierce and new, 

And cause their love to grow more strong and true. 

But now, how changed the scene ! No lordl}^ trees 

Wave their great branches in the passing breeze. 

But, stript of foliage and with br.mches dead, 

They stand decaying, all their beauty fled. 

The little streamlet laughs no more in glee, 

While babbling onward to the restless sea ; 

Its waters long have dried and [)assed away 

Beneath the brightness of the rainless day, 

And now the pebbles, once cool 'neath the stream, 

Lie white and scorching in the sun's fierce gleam, 

AYhile, hot and dusty in the noonday glare, 

The valley lies, of flowers and grasses bare. 

The chirp of cricket or the song of bird 

From field or forest is no longer heard. 

A silence awful, like unto the tomb. 

Broods o'er the valley, filling it with gloom. 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 19 

There at the cottage door the husband lies, 
The seal of death upon his upturned eyes ; 
With hand firm clasped in his, the once fair bride 
Lies cold and pulseless by her husband's side, 
While on her bosom rests a baby fair, 
AYhich, seeking nurture, found its death, too, there. 
And still through all the land, like breath of fire, 
Thefamine sweepeth, and the plague so dire. 

And noAV, the fated day ! O God above. 
Disarm Thy justice by Thy depthless love ! 
But, no ! sweet Mercy now hath fled away, 
And stern-browed Justice holds imperial sway. 
Like to the calm which falls upon the earth 
Before the labors of the hurricane's birth. 
So now there falls upon the land and sea 
Silence so awful, that poor humanity 
Withers and faints away in fear and dread 
Of what shall happen ere the day is fled ; 



20 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

And now dark shadows flit across the sky, 
Each one grown blacker than the one passed by, 
Until no glimmer of the blessed light 
Cheers with its presence mankind's strained sight. 
The deep, dread silence now is broken by 
The hiss of. reptile and the wild beast's cry, 
And from the ocean comes a hollow roar. 
Like waters beating on a rocky shore ; 
More hot and stifling grows the heavy air, 
And in the darkness stalks the fiend, Despair. 
The earth now shudders, like a stricken deer 
When in its heart the hunter plants his spear ; 
And down comes crushing, with a mighty roar, 
Palaces and hovels of both rich and poor ; 
The hoary temples, at whose walls in vain 
The hand of time had smote and smote again, 
Now sway and tremble and go crumbling in, 
With noise resonant and terrific din. 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 21 

And, too, the roaring of the ocean wild 

Grows loud and louder, wave on wave is piled. 

Until the waters seem about to fall 

Upon the land, and so envelop all. 

Like to a streamlet, clogged within its course, 

Until its waters back up to its source. 

And seem about to l)reak from their true course, 
When quick, the waters, gathering new force. 

Burst from their bondage, and sink down once more. 

Until they reach the stage they were before ; 

So sinks the ocean from the terrified sight 

Of those Avho watch it on this awful night ; 

Then with a roaring and tumultuous sound, 

The waters seem to rush l)eneath the ground. 

Upon the shore, o'ercome with deadly fear, 

Kneel men and women, who no longer jeer. 

But with loud wailing, now they humbly crave 

That Christ would pardon, and that Christ would save ; 



22 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD, 

And to these people, kneeling thus in fear, 
Wild beasts and reptiles gather close and near, 
And oft a mother reaching for her child, 
In the great darkness clasps a panther wild. 
Or, finding her sweet babe upon the ground. 
Finds, too, a serpent round its body wound. 
Again a maiden falls, o'ercome with dread. 
And on her body reptiles make their bed. 
And now deep thunder rolls along the sky. 
And lightning flashes oft and luridly. 
And in the oleamino; of its dazzlins; Ijolit 
Those by the ocean see an awful sight. 
The troubled waters now away have fled. 
And far, far down, lies bare the ocean's bed ; 
Here towers a mountain far up in the sea, 
There yawns a valley, dark, forbiddingly. 
And in the valleys lie the wrecks of ships, 
Gone down, unsung by any human lips. 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 23 

And white and ghastly, on the raountain side, 

Lie strewn the hones of those who here have died. 

Here too lie stranded, midst the fleshless dead, 

Things of such shapes as fill the heart with dread. 

Here struggle in great heaps the lordly whale ; 

The sneaking shark, with fins and belly pale ; 

There snakes and lizards, and black creeping things. 

And horrid creatures with great scaly wings. 

Now from the darkness of the valley deep, 

A hideous monster slowly 'gins to creep, 

And soon he struggles upward to the shore. 

While from his mouth drips froth stained red with gore. 

His head is monstrous, and his fiendish eyes 

Excel the devil fish's in cunning, size ; 

And from his forehead spring three powerful horns, 

Each one in shape like to the crab-tree's thorns ; 

Two fin-shaped feet support his head and chest, 

His hinder quarters on his belly rest. 



24 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

He seems a serpent of a monstrous size, 
With head of demon, and with demon eyes. 
But he, too, trembles on this awful night. 
And with loud roaring, and in wild affright. 
Seeks, too, the presence of poor helpless man, 
Who at his coming grows more pale and wan, 
And vainly struggles to arise and flee. 
But terror holds firm, relentlessly. 
And so, with creeping flesh and bated breath. 
He stands and 'waits his tiist approaching death. 
The awful monster only crouches near. 
And seems, like man, o'ercome with deadly fear, 
And now the lightning, as a storm of rain 
Pours from the heavens, making all things plain 
The cowering millions kneeimor on the liTound, 
The beasts and reptiles gathered close around ; 
The awful secrets of the mighty sea, 
Which now are shown so plain and vividly ; 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 25 

The falling houses and the bursting rocks ; 

The trees uprooted, as by tempest shocks, — 

All, all the horrors of this awful night 

Stand out distinct before poor mankind's sight. 

Oh, God of mercy ! listen to that cry, — 

That cry of anguish unto Thee on high ! 

That Thou wouldst end the lives of those below, 

And thus cut short their agonies and woe. 

As if in ansAver to that fearful cry. 

The lightning streams the faster from the sky. 

The earth in places opes in fissures deep. 

Where man and beast sink in a writhing heap. 

Then from th' abyss there come despairing cries ; 

Then a faint moaning, which in silence dies. 

Near where that monster of the ocean stands. 

Kneel men and women, holding burning brands ; 

A bishop, mitred, stands among them there, 

And lifts his voice to God above in prayer ; 



20 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

Then sprinkles Avith the water each bowed head, 
Before he feeds them with the Blessed Bread. 
Then in a moment all sink 'neatli the ground ; 
The beast so horrid 'mongst the people wound ; 
And now fire wraps the trembling, desolate world. 
Which round and round is fast and faster whirled 
Until all things are on its face destroyed ; 
Then die the flames, and in the lightless void, 
Where awful silence as a king doth reign. 
The earth takes up its olden course again. 
The Stygian darkness now is broken by 
A gleam like sunlight in the eastern sky. 
And soon the snowy wings of an angel fair 
Flash as a meteor in the stagnant air. 
Bright silver raiment his fair shape enfolds ; 
A golden trumpet in his hand he holds ; 
And quick alighting on this blackened sphere, 
He blows four trumpet blasts aloud and clear. 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 27 

At once from every grave the dead arise, — 

Those who have slumbered long, and those whose eyes 

Have lately closed, and whose warming breath 

Has just grown cold upon the lips of death ; 

Those who have rested 'neatli the marble stone, 

And those whose graves were humble and unknown ; 

From depths of ocean and from desert waste, 

All. all arise in wonderment and haste, 

And like great flocks of birds flit through the air, 

All to one centre seeming to repair. 

Now the heavens roll l)ack, and a mellow light 

Dissolves the darkness of this starless night, 

Disclosing mankind hurrying, wan and pale, 

Unto the confines of Jehosaphat's Vale, 

Where soon all gather, numberless as sands 

Upon the ocean's long and narrow strands : 

Here wait all peoples Avho have lived and died, 

To hear the fate which Christ shall soon decide ; 



28 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

Here stands the builder of that ship renowned, 
Where in the Deluge only life was found ; 
And there the one whose grave on Moab's height 
Remained forever hid from mortal sight ; 
And he who, in obedience to God's word, 
Prepared to kill his son, and ne'er demurred ; 
That mighty giant whom the shepherd slew. 
And he whom Deliah to his death didst woo ; 
There the Precursor, with his face aglow, 
And body flashing as the moonlit snow ; 
Here all the peoples who abode on earth 
Before the day that ushered in Christ's birth ; 
While separate from these stand those who died 
After the Saviour had been crucified. 
Here are the apostles, with great Peter first, 
And 'mongst the number Judas the accursed ; 
With face malignant, and a devilish leer. 
He shakes and trembles as with deadly fear, 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 29 

Close clutched within his hand the accursed pay 
Which caused the craven to his Lord betray. 
Ne*ct to the apostles, stand the popes who reigned 
Since Peter first the crown of martyrdom gained ; 
Then })riests and bishops in a mighty throng, 
And hooded monks in lines both deep and long ; 
While in the Ijacko'round stand the rest who died 
Since Christ tlie Saviour had been crucified. 
In that vast army every face is white 
With the reflection of their soul's affright ; 
For even those who on this earth did die, 
Rather than live and the true taith deny. 
Feel that but little have they done to earn 
Exemption from the lot of those who burn ; 
While those who followed where their passions led, 
Now fall upon the earth in terror, dread. 
And veil their vision with extended hand, 
And fear to look up towards the heavenly land. 



30 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

Now in a moment, far up in the skies, 
A cross appears, so bright that human eyes 
Cannot withstand the glory of its light, 
Which far exceeds the sun's, as day the night. 
The cross is but of wood, — the same, indeed, 
On which our blessed Saviour once did bleed ; 
Yet now it flashes, like to burnished gold, 
While the spots of blood no eye can firm behold 
They gleam and glitter as the lightning, keen, 
When in the night its blinding flash is seen. 
And now the fluttering sound of many wings 
Is heard in Heaven, while loud the anthem rings 
Of " Joy and glory to the Lamb who died. 
The Lamb who sufiered and was crucified." 
And soon there flashes through the startled air 
Great bands of angels, glorious and fail- ; 
They come in two great lines, a space between, 
Where, in the distance, plainly can be seen 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 31 

A sacred "Wafer, changed not in the least 

From that which daily brake the earthly priest ; 

It gently resteth on great clouds of snow, 

Whose edges soften in a crimson gloAV, 

While countless angels just in front lie prone, 

And on the left there stands a great white throne ; 

While near the Wafer, just upon the right, 

The Virgin Mother sits, with face so bright, — 

Not all the glory of the angels fair, 

Nor cross combined, can to her light compare ; 

A sparkling circlet of bright, golden stars 

Rests on her head, — a crown for those deep scars 

Which were inflicted on her heart, on earth, 

From the great moment of our Saviour's birth ; 

A robe more spotless than the winter's snow 

Falls from her shoulders to the knee below, 

While a bluish garment, fleecy as the clouds. 

Beneath the robe her holy form enshrouds. 
3 



3^ DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

Upon a wondrous throne like crimson light, 

But of a substance strange to human sight, 

She queenly sits, while angels hover near 

In humble homage to their mother dear. 

And now the angels cease their carols sweet, 

And all lie prostrate at the Wafer's feet. 

Which soon assumes the form that Christ on earth 

Didst carry with Him from the hour of birth, 

And Christ, the Saviour, mounts the great white throne, 

While loud the angels their grand hymn intone 

Of " Joy and glory to the Lamb who died. 

The Lamb who suffered and was crucified." 

Like to a person who has been confined 

Where rays of sunlight ne'er their way can find. 

And in a moment rushed into the light, — 

His eyes are dazzled, and refuse their sight. 

So doth the brightness of the Saviour's face 

Strike dark and sightless all the human race. 



DESTEUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

But soon the eyesiaht is restored again 
To those who are with Jesus Christ to reign, 
And they are able to withstand the gUire, 
And awful grandeur of his face so fair ; 
But they who wasted their short lives in crime, 
And soon must pass to darkness for all time, 
Bow low the head, and shield the dazzled eye. 
And loud and piteously for mercy cry. 
And now an angel leaves the shining band. 
And quick advancing, with a sword in hand, 
He humbly prostrates at the Saviour's throne, 
Then turns about, and in an awful tone, 
Which fills the heavens, bids the human race 
To come to judgment, then retires apace, 
And close unto the throne takes up his stand, 
With the bright falchion still within his hand. 
Xow from the nmltitudes in Jehosaphat's vale, 
A single figure, with face ashen pale, 



34 DESTRUCTION OP THE WORLD. 

Wings his flight upward to the ureat white throne, 
Where at the Saviour's feet he kneels alone. 
The glorious angel, with the sword of flame, 
Now calls aloud that Adam is the name 
Of him who, kneeling at the Saviour's feet. 
For pardon, mercy, humbly doth entreat. 
Slow steps an angel from the radiant band. 
Who near to Adam draws, and takes his stand. 
Then the great angel, with the sword of flame, 
Turns to the Lord, and begins the sins to name 
That Adam did, when in the earthh-^ sphere. 
But so low the voice none but God can hear. 
The guardian angel, close where Adam lies, 
Unto the Saviour, in these words, replies : 
"O Sovereign Master! Adam, true, did fall. 
And by his weakness sin polluted all ; 
But \"et he suffered many yearn below 
The pangs of conscience and great earthly woe ; 



DESTRUCTIOX OF THE WORLD. 35 

The death of Abel and the crnne of Cahi 
Filled up the goblet of his earthly pain ; 
And then the awful years from M'hen he died 
Until the hour that Thou wast crucified. 
Remember, Lord, that humljly for his sin 
He bore these pains and long-drawn suffering." 
Then the Great ^Master, with voice low and sweet, 
Addressed the creature lying at his feet : 
"Arise, O Adam ! Though thy sin was great, 
Yet thou hast borne the hardness of thy fate 
With humble patience and firm faith in Me ; 
And faith, and suffering, Avith true charity, 
Are three great weapons in the hands of man 
T' appease My justice and remove My ban. 
Therefore arise, and pass unto My right, 
Among the children of everlasting light." 
And now another figure wings its flight. 
And at the Saviour's feet doth quiclc alight. 



36' DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

This is the woman through whom sin and woe 
First burst upon the innocence l^elow. 
She, too, has suti'ered, but hi more degree 
Than Adam, for the greater sinner she ; 
And she, too, passed unto the Saviour's right, 
Among the children of everhisting light. 
Thus, singly, in the order of their birth. 
Pass unto judgment the children of the earth. 
Some, like to Adam, turn unto the right. 
With joyous footsteps and with faces bright ; 
But, oh ! how many to the left, and woe, 
With savage curses, slow, reluctant, go. 
Now those who pass unto the Saviour's right 
Have their sins hidden from all human sight ; 
But those who pass unto the daunied crowd. 
Have their sins heralded, distinct, aloud. 
And now before the throne there kneels the form 
Of one to honors and to kingships born. 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 37 

Loud on the earthly air, the trump of fame 

To all the people had blown wide his name ; 

He on the nations mighty armies hurled, • 

And when he died, was master of the world. 

The mighty angel, with the sword of flame. 

As to the rest, begins his crimes to name : 

How for ambition and insatiate greed, 

He caused a million hearts to pain and bleed ; 

And that he might engrave himself a name, 

High on the pillar of poor earthly fame. 

How many creatures fell beneath his sword. 

How like to water human blood was poured. 

His guardian angel now to his defence 

Comes quickly forward, and with words intense. 

With pleading fervor, low ennumber o'er 

His many acts of kindness to the poor. 

Then when he ends, a cry for vengeance flows 

From thousands on the left ; and some 'mongst those 



38 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

Who stand upon the right, take up the ci-y 
'Gainst him who sent them to eternity. 
• And then the Master, sorrowful and low. 
Speaks to the culprit : " 'T is true, below 
You oft befriended those who were in need. 
Yet 't will avail thee not ; for every deed 
Performed to win the praise of men on earth. 
And not for Me, is void and little worth. 
Thou art a murderer of thy fellow-man ; 
For he who, without a cause, shall cut the span 
Of human life, before My justice stands 
As doth the murderer fresh with blood-stained hands. 
And this, though he himself strike not a blow 
To cause his fellow-creatures' blood to flow. 
My very nature loathes and doth abhor 
Him who, without just cause, unchains cursed war. 
Therefore, unto the left, join those who stand 
Doomed evermore, a cursed, despairing band ! " 




^■(^q.cCl^^' 



DEPART, YE CURSED, TO YOUR AWFUL DOOM." 



DESTRUCTION OF THE ^YORLD. 39 

He ceases; to the left, with bitter cries, 
The kingly culprit slow and sadly hies. 
Now from the earth another creature wings, 
And at the Saviour's feet his body flings. 
As when a serpent, scaly, clammy, cold. 
But touch a creature, be he ever bold, 
A thrill of horror darts through all his veins, 
And deep abhorrence swift his mind enchains. 
So doth the presence of this culprit now 
Cause deep disdain to sit on every brow; 
A face of loathing wears each angel there, 
And this same feeling seem the just to share. 
Then loud the angel with the sword of tlame 
Calls out that Judas is the kneeler's name. 
Then those upon the left, Avith upraised hand. 
Sly beckon Judas to come join their l)and. 
Aloud the angel, as with those before. 
Calls out the sins that Judas did of yore ; 



40 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

How being chosen to an high estate, 

A position lofty and supremely great ; 

One of the twelve, designed for noble deeds, 

In heathen lands to sow the gospel seeds ; 

And spread the faith that Christ to Peter gave, 

And countless souls to gladden and to save ; 

And then, to round a life so nobly spent. 

The niartyi-'s death and glorious crown were meant ; 

And how, thus honored, yet did vilely sell 

His Lord and Master." 

He ceases. Looks of anger and of scorn 

Are cast by angels on the cringing form 

Of that vile traitor, who lies speechless there. 

Bowed down with horror and a dread despair. 

And then the Saviour, sorrowful and low : 

"Why didst thou, Judas, bring on thee this woe? 

Thy awful crime, when, at that supper last. 

With treacherous heart thou joiuedst in the repast, 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD> 41 

And, too, thy treason at the garden gate, 

Mightst been forgiven, — though thy sins were great, — 

If thou hadst trusted in INIy love for thee, 

And, filled with sorrow and humility, 

Had asked for pardon ; but thy deep despair 

Drove thee to murder, and without a prayer 

Upon thy lips, you passed the portal dim 

Which leads to joy or awful suffering. 

Therefore, unto My left I bid thee go. 

And with proud Lucifer rule the courts below.'* 

With face of terror and malignant hate 

Judas joins his now eternal mate. 

And now comes Peter, the apostle chief. 

Who, too, kneels down, but for a moment brief, 

For with a smile so tender and so sweet. 

The Saviour bids the figure at His feet 

To rise. " O Peter ! thou the yieldless rock 

Of my loved church, first pastor of my flock. 



42 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

Well didst thou guard the trust I gave to thee, 

And for my sake didst die upon the tree ; 

Therefore, O servant tried ! pass to the right, 

To receive the tiara in My Father's sight." 

The other ten now to the judgment pass, 

Then to the right ; and now comes John, the last, 

He who, of old, with weariness opprest, 

Pillowed his head upon the Saviour's breast. 

"Oh, my loved Master ! " breaks the trembling cry 

From the apostle's lips, "again my mortal eye 

Dost see my Saviour, who so long ago, 

With tender pity, eased my bitter woe. 

O Master ! Master ! More fair and l)right Thou art 

Than when I rested on Thy loving heart. 

But yet I feel Thou lov'st me as of old, 

And will forgive my words, presumptuous bold." 

"Rise up, O John ! still loved by Me the same 

As when we walked upon Judea's plain ; 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 43 

And as on earth, so still thou shall be known 
As John the loved, and stand near My throne." 

And now once more the circle is complete ; 
The chosen twelve, with joy each other greet. 
Now switt there comes from out the crowd below 
One who on earth did heinous doctrines sow ; 
AVho taught that war was holy and was just, 
And that hioh heaven was ])ut a home for lust. 
'T is he of JNIecca, who with blasphemous speech 
Proclaimed that he the Saviour did o'erreach. 
And was the greater ; he whose horrid creed 
Caused wreck and ruin, and made thousands bleed. 
Xow as with Judas, so no guardian there 
To plead exemption or to breathe a prayer, 
While wild with terror, brave Mahomet falls 
Before the throne, and loud for mercy calls. 
Dark as the clouds that gather 'fore the storm, 
And till all hearts with terror and alarm, 



44 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

So grows the Saviour's brow, and thus he speaks : 

" He who shall dare upon himself to take 

The awful pride to claim that his poor mind 

Than God's is greater, and who leads the blind 

To paths of error, by his self-made creed. 

And dying thus, his \vt)rds take root and breed, — 

No pain too great for such a wretch as he. 

No sutfering equal to his blasphemy. 

Thus didst thou, Mahmoud, and eternal w^oe 

Shall be thy portion in the realms below." 

Then thousands follow^ but each one alone. 
And kneel for judgment 'fore the great white throne. 
Some have been famous in the earthly life, 
But many knowai not in the daily strife. 
But, strange indeed ! the peasant here is known 
And honored more than he who wore a crown 
Upon the earth ; the lowly and the poor 
The brightest crowns and- greatest thrones secure ; 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 45 

And many owe admission 'mongst the blest 

To earthly cares and a life with grief oppressed. 

Here comes an one, unknown upon the earth, 

Poor and humble from the hour of birth ; 

No well-fed knaves his ears with flatteries charmed, 

But rigid want, with scofl's and jeering armed. 

Dispelled all pride, and showed him true and clear 

The world's deceptions and its phantoms drear. 

The rich and powerful passed him by in scorn, 

As one unworthy and one lowly born. 

But he, the greater, headed not their scorn, 

But only pity in his heart was born 

For their great blindness, and he humbly prayed 

That God would give them light and heavenly aid. 

He lived amongst trade's turmoil and its noise, 

Yet was not of it ; great and higher joj's 

Filled his great soul. 



46 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. f . 

He loved to wander by the river's side 
When fell the shades of peaceful eventide, 
And in the rhythm of the water's flow 
Heard voices whisper tenderly and low ; 
He loved the forest, with its gloomy shades. 
Its rippling streamlets, and its grassy glades ; 
And when the trees by rushing winds Avere stirred, 
His spirit trembling, sweetest music heard ; 
He loved the fields where swayed the golden grain, 
All thino's in nature told him God did reign ; 
He loved the Holy Church, and SAveet to him 
Were its great rites and simplest offering. 
How dear to him the mass at break of day, 
Before King Trade resumed his noisy sway. 
The morning air, fresh from the dewy field. 
Unto the service doth its perfume yield, 
While sweet, melodious, from the forest near. 
The song of birds fell on the listening ear. 



DESTRUCTION OP THE WORLD. 47 

Upon his heart, like dews upon the earth, 

God's peace did fall and holy thoughts have birth. 

Then, when the forest trees cast shadows tall. 

And peaceful evening threw her spell o'er all. 

How sweet to him the holy chapel then. 

Its silence broken not by tongues of men ; 

The setting sun, through windows stained and rare, 

Flashed on the altar and the dead Christ there, 

And threw a halo round the Saviour's head 

Of gold and crimson and a purplish red ; 

And then the day grew into night and gloom. 

But still he lingered till the risino- moon 

Looked through the windows ; then arising, he 

Turned from the chapel, slow, reluctantly. 

And now he kneels before the Saviour's throne. 

But not as one unhonored and unknown. 

The angels bow their heads as ho goes by, 

And saints with them to do him honor vie. 



48 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

The Saviour bids him on the right to stand 
Amongst the children of the heavenly land. 
And now there rises from the crowds below 
One who, like Mahmoud, heresies did sow. 
He to the cloister in the morn of life 
Was called by God from out the worldly strife. 
Thus hedged from sin within the convent wall, 
No need for him to stumble or to fall. 
One winter's night he looked from out his cell 
Upon a scene, where bright the moonlight fell. 
He saw the hillside covered deep with snow. 
And in the shadow of the vale below, 
From out the windows of a castle there 
The firelight streamed with hospitable glare. 
He saw, within, the soft, voluptuous form 
Of a fair woman, radiant and warm. 
At first this picture served but to dispel 
The love he bore unto his humble cell : 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 49 

But as he gazed upon the woman there, 

"With form so spkMitlid and with face so fair, 

The demon Envy crept into his heart, 

And with fair words and with demoniac art 

Portrayed the difference 'tween his humble state 

And of the prince who was this woman's mate ; 

How lie, the monk, before the break of day, 

Must to the chapel go, in cold to pray. 

While still the prince beside his lovely wife 

Slept on, oblivious to the ills of life ; 

How he lived only on the coarsest fare. 

The prince on costly wines and viands rare. 

Then as he gazed, that demon whose hot breath 

"Wilts human souls, as flowers by warm hands pressed. 

Crept to his side and spake : " O fool ! how blind ! 

Who tasteth not the charms of womankind. 

See that fair creature in the castle there, 

With eyes of azure and with golden hair. 



50 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

With teeth of ivory and with lips of fire : 

AVhat more could one expect, what more desire ? 

And many such as she await the call 

To marital joys." Swift as the meteors fall 

Adown the walls of the bespangled sky, 

So fell the monk, supinely, miserably. 

Then from that hour fierce ])urned the lustful fire, — 

A wife his only aim, his one desire. 

And then, to hide his pui'pose, claimed the church 

Had fallen in error, and that he must search 

And find the golden links lost from tradition's chain. 

And ))ind the past and present once again. 

And so he scattered with a cursed hand 

The seeds of heresy throughout the land. 

At last, within the sacred convent wall. 

He found a woman waiting for his call. 

She, too, bad taken holy vows, as he, 

Of poverty and holy chastity. 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 51 

Both broke these vows, and lived vile, perjured lives, 

Sunk deep in lust and horrid blasphemies. 

And now the monk before the judgment seat 

Kneels, and for mercy humbly doth entreat. 

Then, like the tempest, low and ruml)ling first, 

And then like it, in awful roar did burst, 

A cry of rage from thousands ranged below, 

Upon whose heads the monk had caused to flow 

The wrath of God. For these, the monk's creed held 

As true and holy, forgetting he rebelled 

Against the Church which Christ Himself had built. 

For which His precious blood was freely spilt. 

And now the accusing angel loudly speaks 

The crimes of him, who now for mercy seeks : 

"How God's great mercy led him to the cell, 

And how for lust and gain he did rel)el. 

And broke his vows and heresies proclaim, 

And millions led to everlasting pain." 



52 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

He ends ; but no defending A'oice is tliere 

To lift the monk to hope, from black despair. 

Dark as the heavens when the tempests sweep, 

Fierce as the storm upon the heaving deep. 

So grows the Saviour's brow, and thus he speaks : 

''Oh, thou ! who for accursed lust did break 

Thy solemn promise, and didst dare to preach 

The Church taught error, when Myself didst teach 

That I was with her even to the end. 

And 'ijainst hell's aates would ever her defend. 

Oh ! awful blasphemy'' ! accursed pride ! 

To say tliat I had promised, and had lied. 

And then the thousands thou hast led away 

From hol}^ church, and from the narrow way, — 

How many souls, most precious in My sight, 

Have followed thee into eternal night ! 

What pain too great for one who thus destroyed 

The souls for whom I died and whom I loved. 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 53 

Therefore unto the left, accursed, go ; 
Thy lot an endless night, eternal woe ! " 

Before the throne a noble warrior kneels, 
Whose name his guardian angel loud reveals : 
"Godfre}^ of Bouillon, Oh, my Lord I is he 
Who at Thy footstool kneels for clemency. 
He is the glorious chief who led the war 
Against Mahomet, Avhom Thou dost al^hor ; 
And in that struggle, to uphold the right. 
Thy sacred honor was his beacon light. 
He hated war, and mourned for those who died ; 
Refused a crown where Thou wast crucified. 
Within his breast, that flower so loved by Thee, 
Forever, bloomed, — the flower of chastity." 
And thus the Lord : "Well done, O faithful son ! 
Thy trials past, eternal joy is won." 
Xow comes a warrior, who by Godfrey's side, 
Fought 'fore Jerusalem, and in fighting died. 



54 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

Then speaks the accuser : " 'Mongst the knights of old 

Who followed Godfrey in his crusade bold, 

Was one whose only thought, whose one desire, 

Was to win glory and to wealth aspire. 

He in the thickest of the fight was seen. 

And like a brand of fire, his falchion keen 

Flashed in the faces of the Moslem foe, 

And many a life went out beneath his blow. 

Hard and cruel as his shining blade. 

Was his own heart. Kind Pity never stayed 

His lifted arm ; and then, wiien won the day, 

He, like a jackal seeking for its prey. 

Searched 'mongst the dying and the dead for gold. 

And tore the rings from fingers not yet cold. 

He now for mercy kneels before the throne. 

He who in life to mercy was unknown." 

And then the Master : "Oh, my son, my son ! 

What glorious kingdom couldst thou not have won, 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 55 

Hadst thou, like Godfrey, sought 1)ut to fulfil 
Thy sacred vow, and killed against thy will. 
For he who, in a war however just. 
Fights but for glory, or for golden lust, 
Or for a motive other tlian the right. 
He, killing, is a murderer in My sight." 
Then to the left the warrior paces slow, 
His features horrible with his awful woe. 
And thus they pass, — some happy, to the right, 
But many, many to the left, and night. 
For, oh ! how searching is the Saviour's eye ; 
How strict the judgment, keen the scrutiny. 
Works seeming holy to the eyes of man. 
To Christ are sinful, and fall 'neath his ban. 
His justice sifteth every word and thought, 
The deeds performed, and those performed not, 
And many, mau}^ lose a throne above. 
Because of holy deeds, done through self-love. 



56 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

Among the wretches, many owe their doom 
To children murdered in their mother's womb. 
O God ! how many to impurity owe 
The loss of heaven and eternal woe. 

Now ends the judgment, and in two great bands, 
The lost and saved, before the Savdour stand. 
There on the right, 'mongst those described before, 
Columbus stands, his trials and sorrows o'er. 
Upon his head a glorious crown of light, 
Each wrono- he bore but making it more bright. 
This crown of lasting glory did he gain. 
Not by his valor on an unknown main, 
Nor yet because his heart was noble, grand, 
Nor that he found a great and fertile land ; 
But that his only thought in every deed. 
Was that it glorify God, and his great creed. 
There, too, amongst the just, that poet grand, 
Who sang of Godfrey and his valiant band ; 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 57 

And l)y his side stands Dante, now at last 

At peace forever, his long exile past. 

There Don Alonzo leads the knights of Spain, 

He Avho by bold Ben Estephar was slain ; 

There Ferdinand, and Isabella fair, 

And many, many, whom their wars did share ; 

There Cadiz' marquis, standing close beside 

One who, on earth, served as his menial tried; 

There Don Fernando, kingly as of old, 

And thousands of his cavaliers bold. 

There many from that island of the sea 

Where faith was bright "'fore Henry's heresy"; 

There Patrick leads the hosts from that green isle 

AYhich sutfered persecutions deep and vile ; 

St. Martin leads the saints from that fair land 

Of. sunn}' France a great and gloi-ious band ; 

There monks and nuns, who, in the lowly cell 

Upon the earth, both builded deep and well ; 



58 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

The glorious martyrs, a great band of light, 

Their faces radiant, their garments white, — 

Some of the rich, and thousands of the poor. 

Temptations past, and heaven at last secure. 

And now the Saviour turns unto the lost, — 

Dark as the ocean when by tempests tossed. 

Black as the clouds when fierce the storm doth break, 

Still as the air before the dire earthquake : 

So grows the heavens. Oh ! what awful fear 

Falls on the lost, as now their doom draws near. 

With bitter cries they on their faces fall. 

And unto Jesus loud for mercy call, 

And unto Mary lift their wretched hands, 

In supplication and in mute demands. 

But she, so happy, in the days gone by. 

To plead with Christ for poor humanity, 

Now turns a deafened ear to their appeals, 

Heeds not their sorrow, and no pity feels. 



DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 59 

Oh ! stern and awful grows the Saviour's l)row, 

While, duml) with terror, fall the lost ones now 

riftt on their faces, and a quivering fear 

Runs through their veins, as they this sentence hear ; 

Which, as 'tis given, doth the Saviour rise 

Upon his feet, wdiile blacker grow the skies : 

" Depart, ye cursed, to your awful doom. 

Where My absence maketh hopeless gloom ; 

For when I hungered and with thirst was faint. 

Ye heeded not My cry. My humble plaint ; 

Ye scorned M}^ mercies and defied My power. 

NoAV ^Nlercy 's dead, and this is Justice's hour ; 

Thq^-efore, away, into eternal fire. 

Where hope is not, and suflTering is dire." 

Then downward, downward into endless night, 

With awful cries, the damned disappear from sight. 

The Saviour quickly turns unto the blessed. 

His face aglow and joy thereon expressed ; 



60 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

Then kneel the just, and huml)ly boAV their heads, 

While Christ above them his pierced hands outspreads. 

Quick change the clouds from black to colors bright. 

And all the heavens fill with o-jorious liijht. 

As waves of ocean rushing on the strands 

Remove the figures drawn by human hands ; 

So on the souls of those low kneeling there, 

A wave of joy effaces earthly care. 

Ecstatic love for God fills every heart. 

So that 't were fullest bliss to ne'er depart 

From where they kneel, so only Christ would stay 

And be the sun of their eternal day. 

Soft as the southern wind on summer eve, 

Sweeter than any sound man can conceive. 

So speaks the Saviour : "O Peter ! now I take 

From out thy hands the power to bind and break. 

For now the mission of My church is done ; 

Through many storms at last she reaches home." 



DESTKUCTION OF THE WORLD. 01 

And then, addressing all, he thus did speak : 
" Come, my beloved, come now to partake 
Of endless joys, in heaven above with ]\Ie, 
When you shall see the mystery of the Three, 
And things forever dark to human eyes 
To you shall be as bright as summer skies. 
Your short probation in the vale of tears 
Shall be rewarded in eternal years. 
And pain or sorrow never more shall come 
To soul or body in your heavenly home. 
Therefore, My children ! 'rise and follow Me 
Into the glories of Eternity." 

Then all rise upward : first the angel bands ; 
Then Christ, the Saviour, at whose side now stands 
The Virgin Mother, and St. Joseph blest, 
While just behind comes Peter and the rest ; 
And then the glorious hosts, who 've won the fight, 
Their faces flashing with supernal light. 



62 DESTRUCTION OF THE WORLD. 

Then ope the heavens and the flashes come, 
And all pass in to their eternal home ; 
While sweeter far than heard by mortal ear, 
Their voices blend in anthem loud and clear, 
Of " Glory to the Father and the Son, 
And Holy Spirit, three, yet only one/' 



THE WIND OF THE WINTER NIGHT. (53 



THE WIND OF THE WINTER NIGHT. 



/^H, AVinter Wind ! why goest thou, 

With moaning voice, across the snow? 
Dost seek for friends of other days 
In lone and unfrequented ways ? 
Or dost thou mourn for days gone by. 
When, 'neath the warm, bright summer's sky, 
Thou wooedst the sweet, sad violet. 
Or pansy with the eyes of jet ; 
Or on some calm, pellucid stream, 
AVith folded wings didst idly dream, 
And list unto the bluebird's call 
And ripple of the waterfall? 

5 



«)4 THE WIND OF THE WINTER NIGHT. 

Oh, Winter Wind ! thy wild unrest 
Doth wuke an echo in my breast ; 
I, too, bemoan the bright days fled, 
And friends now numbered 'mongst the dead, 
And vainly seek through devious ways 
The summer joys of other days. 



THE STORM. 65 



THE mm. 



TTOT and .stilling broods the summer day 

Upon the landscape ; 
The dust lies deep upon the winding road 

And bordering bushes ; 
The patient sheep within the sun-burnt tield 
Seek shelter 'neath the neighboring forest trees ; 
The leaves hang motionless, save a quivering slight, 

Within the heated air ; 
Xo living sound from forest or from field ; 

All hushed and silent. 
And now there rises 'bove the western hills 

A fleecy cloudlet, 



G(^ THE STORM. 

And like a solitary ship on ocean vast, 

Sails o'er the heavens. 
Now speeds another, and the rambling sound 
Of distant thunder breaks upon the ear ; 
And now more frequent sail the aerial ships. 
But chano^ed from white to dark and leaden hue. 
Then slowl}^ from the west majestic'ly 
The storm-king rears his dark and angry head ; 
The thunder rumbles louder, and the lightning keen 
Flashes from out the bosom of the storm ; 
Great gusts of wind, like couriers in advance, 
Scatter the dust along the winding road ; 
Light leaden clouds outstrip the storm's advance, 

And veil the sun ; 
AVith startled cries the birds flit through the air. 

And seek their nests. 
Now dark as midnight grows the leaden sky, 
The lightning flashes oft and luridl}^, 



THE STORM. G7 

And the deep thunder shakes the rock-bound hill^ ; 
The forest bends within the storm-king's grasp, 
And with the rushing of the mighty wind, 
The w^aters liurst upon the parched earth. 



68 MY FATHER'S GRAVE. 



MY FATHEE'S GEAVE. 

[Written Oct. 25, 1883, after visiting ray father's grave in St. Mary's 
Cemetery, Pittsburg, Pa. J 



D 



EEP within the cemetery walls, 



Where the golden sunlight falls 



In silent wave ; 
There where the flow'rets sweet arise, 
And fill the air with perfume, lies 

My father's grave. 

Near hy stand monuments grand and fair, 
Raised up by wealth, whose friends lie there 
In lasting sleep ; 



MY FATHER'S GRAV^E. 69 

Symbols oft'ner of living pride, 
Than love for those they stand l)esidc 
And watches keep. 

No sculptured column rears its head 
Where father lies in lonely bed, 

Till day of doom ; 
Only a plain white marble stone. 
With name and date engraved thereon, 

Marks out his tomb. 

Yet deep within my heart there stands 
A monument not of human hands. 

But fairer far, — 
A flame of love so fierce and bright. 
Not winter's storms nor summer's bli"ht 

Its beauties mar. 



70 MY FATHER'S GRAVE. 

What tender love did not fother show, 
The while he journeyed here below, 

Unto the poor ; 
They were to him as children dear. 
As God's own loved ones, toiling here 

In paths secure. 

The senseless joys and foolish mirth, 
So loved by many on this earth, 

He did despise ; 
But nature, in her changing forms, 
Had ever deep and lasting charms 

Unto his eyes, 
And ever in her presence found 
That peace and rest which doth abound 

In solitude. 

So here, indeed, he must sleep well, 
In this lone and quiet dell. 
Beyond the crowd, 



MY FATHER'S GEAVE. 71 

The vulgar and the selfish throng, 
Who crowd the paths of life along 
With clamor loud. 

Here on the breast of Mother Earth, 
Free from the passions of our birth, 

Removed from strife ; 
He, sweetly 'neath the cooling sod, 
Resteth in the peace of God, 

Awaitino; life. 



72 ALL SOULS-EVE. 



AI;L-SOl]LS-EVE. 



T SIT within my chamber, 

On this hallowed eve ; 
Within the firelight glimmers, 
Without the winds low erieve. 



Now strikes the hour of midnight 
Upon the old town clock ; 

The winds groAv cold and fiercer, 
And at the casement knock. 



ALL-SOULS-EVE. 73 

Within the flickering embers 

On my chamber hearth, 
I see foro-otten faces 

Of friends long passed from earth. 

Then I recall the legend, 

That on this night, 'tis said, 
One can upraise the spirits 

Of the departed dead. 

And quick I bid the soul 

Of one most dear to me, 
To come from out the shadows 

Of eternity. 

Then slowly through the chamber 

A cold, dark shadow falls ; 
My hands and feet grow numbed, 

And terror me appals. 



74 ALL-SOUL"-EVE. 

AYithin the dark, dread shadow, 

I see the face of one 
Who loved me as a brother. 

In days now long since gone. 

But, oh ! what awful sadness 
Is stamped upon the ftice, 

And eyes that once spake laughter, 
Seem sorrow's bidhig-place. 

"Oh ! why, my friend and brother," 
Unto the ftice I spake, — 

" Why is this awful sadness, 

What seems thy heart to break ? " 

" For answer look beyond me, 

Into the shadows deep, 
Where Purgatory opens 

For many of those who sleep." 



ALL-SOULS-EVE. 75 

I looked, and there saw thousands 

AVho seemed to suffer dire, — 
Some by remorse, and others 

By fierce, consuming tire. 

And one I noticed smiling, 

His face so joyous, fair. 
And eyes turned, longing, upwards. 

And hands upraised in prayer. 

And following his vision 

I saw a monaster}', old, 
Uprear its moss-grown towers, 

Beside a lonely wold. 

And looking^ throuoh the windows, 

I saw a priest prepare 
To offer the holy Sacrifice 

For the soul with face so fair. 



76 ALL-SOULS-EVE. 

And when the mass was finished, 
I saw that soul take flight 

From out that awful dungeon, 
To realms of heavenly light. 

Then spake niy friend and brother : 
" Thou seest why I mourn ; 

For many weary ages 

I 've Purgatory's suffering borne. 

" Of all the friends I cherished 
When in the earthly strife, 

Not one so much as prayeth 
For my eternal life. 

" And here I 'm forced to linger 
For ages yet to come, 

Because mankind forgetteth 

The souls of those who 're gone." 



ALL-SOULS-EVF. 77 

And then the vision faded ; 

I started as from sleep ; 
The clock within the l)elfry 

Struck one, sonorous, deep. 



78 THE OCTOBER DAY. 



THE OCTOBER DAY. 



/^H, perfect day ! when but to liv^e is joy, 

And on the mind all active pleasures cloy, 
When but to lie above some purling stream, 
And watch the clouds float by, and idly dream. 
Is sweetest peace. 

When all the woods stand clothed in brightest hue ; 
The golden maple and the blood-red yew, 
And purple grapes hang from the forest vine, 
Which round the oak its clinging form entwines 
In close embrace. 

When soft and purple stand the distant hills. 
And purple haze the peaceful valley fills. 



THE OCTOBER DAY. 79 

And o'er the sweet, sad silence of the scene 
The golden sunlight fulls in softened sheen, 
And tender light. 

O God ! how bright must be the day above, 
Which Thou hast promised those who share Thy love ! 
When this, the image, is so sweet and tair, 
That one could live, without a thought or care 
For all things else. 

Sunday, Oct. 21, 1883. 



80 LINES ON GLADSTONE. 



LINES ON GLADSTONE'S INTRODUCTION INTO THE 
BRITISH PAELIAMENT, 

OF THE BILL FOE THE "FUTURE GOVERNMENT OF IRELAND." 



f\ii, patriot sons of Erin ! 

The longed-for day is near, 
Swift flee the deadly shadows 
Of the night so drear. 

Upon the head of Ireland 
The dawn is breaking now, 

And soon the sun of freedom 
Shall flash upon her brow^ 



LINES ON GLADSTONE. 81 

Arouse, ye friends of justice, 

And let your warning cry 
Be heard across the ocean, 

Be heard within the sky. 

And he who dares to hinder 

The dawning of the light, 
Shall hear your voice and tremble, 

And flee in wild aftright. 

Then shall the cry of freemen 

Be heard upon the blast, 
And " God save poor old Ireland ! " 

Be answered then at last. 



82 CHRISTMAS MORN. 



CHEISTIAS MOM. 



1Y0ISELESS o'er the midnight workl 

Fall the snowflakes down, 
O'er the forest and the plain, 
And the sleeping town. 

Softly in the forest dell. 

Where the strong winds sleep ; 

Furiously upon the plain, 
Where the tempests sweep. 



Clothing all the earth in white, 



In a garb so fair 
That the dark and gloomy night 
Turns in dread despair. 



CHRISTMAS MORN. 83 

And the light of coming day 

In the East appears, 
Banishing the night away, 

And nocturnal fears. 

Cheerily across the snow 

Comes the Christmas bell. 
Setting every heart aglow 

With its happy knell. 

Kinging to the winter's sky 

The words that angels sang : 
" Glory be to God on high , 

Peace on earth to man." 

Ringing mito hearts of stone, 

Human sympathy ; 
Ringing unto every home. 

Christian charity. 



84 CHRISTMAS MORN. 

Eing loud and louder, happy l3ells, 
And may your joj'ous tone 

Be heard wherever mankmd dwells, 
Wherever grief is known. 

And may the echo of your voice 
Ring through the coming years, 

And angels hearing will rejoice, 
And mankind cease to jeer. 

McKeesport, Ta., Cheistmas Eve, 1883. 



GLENWOOD FOREST. 85 



GLENWOOD FOREST. 

[Written on the occasion of a visit to Glenwood, 23(i Ward, Pittsburg, Pa., ia the 
Spring of 1884.] 



/^H, friend of other days, how changed thou art ! 

And yet what niem'ries stir within my heart, 
"When once again I press beneath my feet 
Thy woodland ways, and smell thy flow'rets sweet. 
Which lift their tender heads from out the grass. 
And seem to greet me as I onward pass. 
How oft, O forest ! in the long ago, 
Beneath thy shadows and with footsteps slow, 
I 've paced at evening, while the autumn sun 
Just sank to rest, and I the only one 



86 GLEN WOOD FOREST. 

Within thy borders. Oh ! what lessons, fraught 

With deepest wisdom were unto me taught 

By thy sad voices, while thy leafless trees 

Swayed to and fro, stirred by the evening breeze. 

How like a requiem o'er some loved dead, 

The zephyrs moaned through branches overhead. 

And low and solemn heard I on the wind : 

" As fall the leaves, so perish all mankind." 

And then in springtime, w^hen the morning sun 

Dissolved the shadows, and the night was done, 

What joy, O forest ! seemed to fill thy heart. 

And youth and vigor to thy limbs impart. 

The buds burst forth from every shrub and tree, 

And low thy voices whispered unto me : 

" The night is past, the day returns once more ; 

So God to man shall life again restore." 

And then in summer, when the golden day 

Like smile of God upon the landscape lay, 




'■AT ONCE FROM EVERY GRAVE, THE DEAD ARISE. 



GLENWOOD FOREST. 87 

How oft I 've stretched beneath some favorite tree, 
In sweet content and dreamy ecstasy. 
The forest flowers, with shy and tender eyes, 
Raised their sweet faces to the bending skies ; 
The birds in trees o'erhead sang low and sweet, 
The silver streamlet murmured at my feet, 
While drows'ly from the fields the hum of bees 
And chirp of crickets came upon the breeze. 
Then sweet thy voices sounded in mine ear : 
" Dispel all doubts and put away thy fear, 
For unto thee a summer's day shall come 
Beyond the skies within thy Father's home." 



AVE MARIA. 



AVE MAEIA. 



\ VE Maria ! the evening shadows fall : 

Ave Maria ! We pray thee guard us all. 

Over the land and sea the night is coming on ; 
Ave Sanctissima ! guard us till the dawn. 

Star of life's stormy sea, hear our humble prayer, 
And when the tempests rise, save us from despair. 

Guide our wand'ring footsteps through this world aright ; 
Safely through the darkness upward to the light. 

Ave Sanctissima ! hear our earnest cry ! 
Ave Maria ! draw near us when we die. 



LONGFELLOW. 89 



LONGFELLOW. 



/^H, poet ! gentle as the whispering wind, 

And like it, soaring high above thy kind ; 
AVe lowly greet thee on thy natal day. 
In humble and in reverential lay. 

'T is true, thou 'st passed beyond the midnight sea 
Which flows 'tween this life and eternity, 
Yet still thou seemcst to be ever nigh ; 
'T is truly said : Great poets never die. 



90 CHRISTMAS EVE. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 



f\ii, night ! so joyful unto fallen man, 

Since that blest night when Christ his reign began 
Ut)on the earth. 

Through all the ages past this night has been 
One of great joy and happiness to men. 
Then strife did cease, the armor laid aside. 
And white- winged peace came for a time to bide. 

Then open swung the convent's massive door 
In friendly greeting to the blessed poor. 
And loud did voices through cathedrals ring 
In praise and greeting to their new-born King. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 91 

The monks who filled those convents long ago, 
Are dust to-night beneath the winter's snow, 
And those young voices now forever stilled, 
"Which with sweet music the cathedrals filled. 

Yet still upon this night I seem to hear 
Their happy voices ringing in my ear. 
And feel the holy dead rejoice with us 
Upon this eve of peace and happiness. 

Christmas Eve, 1885. 



92 GOOD FRIDAY. 



GOOD FEIDAY. 



/^H, day forever sad, yet ever blest ! 

When for this fallen world the Savour died, 
And the pearly gates of heaven ope'd wide 
To the sin oppressed. 

Distinct from out the ages of the past, 

This vision rises up within my mind ; 

A night so calm and still ; the languid wind 

Scarce stirs the leaves upon the drooping palm, 

And o'er the earth there broods an awful calm, 

Like that which falls ere sweeps the hurricane's blast. 



GOOD FRIDAY. 93 

No moon lights up the broad expanse of sky, 

The stars alone look downward from on high, 

Where Christ the Lord, o'erwhelmed with anguish, falls 

Upon the earth, within Gethsemane's Avails. 

His brow, and e'en his body, dank and wet, 

In horror of our sins, with bloody sweat. 

And now the silence of that awful night 
Is profaned by tramp of men and Hash of light ; 
And Judas, followed by the soldier bands. 
Appears, and gives his Lord to brutal hands. 
And now, my soul, thy God, for love of thee, 
Begins the painful way of Calvary. 

How meekly doth He hear the ruffian's blow, 
The crown of thorns, which starts His blood to flow, 
And all the insults of that rabble throng, 
AVho jeer and scotf, and hurry Him along ; 



94 GOOD FRIDAY. 

Until, o'ercome with weariness and pain, 
He falls to eaiih, but is forced to rise again. 

And faint and dizzy from the dreadful loss 

Of blood, He 's forced to bear the heavy cross, 

While every footstep with His gore is stained, 

Until the top of Calvary is gained. 

Where to the cross He's nailed, and raised on high, 

Between two thieves, to languish and to die. 

Approach, my soul, unto this holy place, 

And see the anguish of thy Saviour's face ! 

His hands and feet pierced through by cruel nails, 

Great wounds from which his virgin blood exhales, 

While from His side there flows in crimson flood 

A precious stream of water and of blood. 

And now there falls upon the trembling earth. 
Darkness, like that which reigned before the birth 



GOOD FRIDAY. 95 

Of light ; while from their graves the dead arise, 
Aud lightning flashes from the darkened skies. 
Grim terror seizes on the rabble throng, 
And in wild rout, quick hurries them along. 

Oh, sinful soul ! Upon this blessed dawn, 

Draw near with Mary and the loved John, 

And 'neath the cross where hangs the Saviour, dead, 

Humbly ask pardon for thy sins so red, — 

Those sins which sharped the lance that pierced God's 

side, 
For Avhich He suffered and for wdiich He died. 

And Christ will see thy deep and poignant grief. 
And pardon thee, like to the dying thief; 
So to a life of grace thou "wilt be born, 
And rise with Jesus on the Easter morn. 

McKeesport, March 23, 1883. 



96 COMING FROM CONFESSION. 



COMING FEOM CONFESSION. 



C LOWLY, and with feet reluctant, 

From the church I go ; 
Peace upon my heart lies couchant, 
Banishing alj woe. 

For the words have just been spoken 

By the holy priest, 
And my soul from bondage broken, 

From all sin released. 

Tender seems the moon above me. 
Sweet the crickets' call. 

And the wind says, oh ! so softly, 
"God doth love us all." 

McKeesport, August 2, 1884. 



MY KINGDOM. 97 



3IY KINCtDOI. 



T HAVE neither wealth nor titles, 
I have neither house nor lands, 

Yet I dwell within a castle 

Fair as reared by mortal hands. 

There the summer ever lingers. 
There the flowers forever liloom ; 

Death or sickness never enter, 

Nowhere gleams the marble tomb. 

There the sound of purling waters 
Drows'ly falls upon the ear ; 

There the wind is perfume freighted. 
And the birds sins; low and clear. 



98 MY KINGDOM. 

There true love, on golden pinions, 
Hovers o 'er this castle fair. 

And the spirit of contentment 
Broods upon the ambrosial air. 

But you ask me, " How can this be? 

Where can one this castle find ? " 
But I answer, " 'T is for distant. 

In my kingdom of the mind." 



TWO PICTURES. 90 



TWO PICTURES. 



T OUD rings vain laughter in the city's street, 

And loud the echo of the hurrying feet; 
The lamps glare brightly on the crowded throng, 
As, bent on pleasure, quick they hurry on. 
Thoughts of the present only fill each heart ; 
None of that moment when we all must part. 

Still lies the graveyard, mystical and white, 
Beneath the glamor of the moonlit night ; 
A silence reigns supreme, no sound is heard 
Except the cypress, by the night wind stirred ; 
Xo noise, nor turmoil, nor quick, hurrying tread, 
Disturbs the slumbers of the blessed dead. 

McKeesport, Pa., July 16, 1884. 



100 THE LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN. 



THE LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN. 



TITTHEN the spirit, weary 
With incessant strife. 
And the body broken 
By the cares of life ; 

Then as breath of winter. 

On a sultry day, 
Is the fresh'ning perfume 

Of the leaves' decay. 

Go into the forest. 

Ye who live within 
The city's crowded precincts. 

The city's glare and din ; 



THE LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN. 101 

Go- into the forest, 

On a day like this, 
And her subtle spirit 

Will fill thy heart with bliss. 

McKeespokt, Nov. 22, 1885. 



102 THE CHILD'S CHKISTMAS GIFT. 



THE CHILD'S CHEISTIAS GIFT. 



"PvARK falls the winter evening 

Upon the city's glare, 
The blessed eve of Christmas, 
That eve so bright and fair 
To fallen man. 

Within an humble cottage. 
Back from the crowded street, 

A little child lies dying, — 
Faint on her ear doth beat 
The noises of the street. 



THE CHILD'S CHRISTMAS GIFT. 103 

The glimmering firelight only 

Lights up the gathering gloom, 
Throwing grotesque shadows 

About the cheerless room. 

Unto the widowed mother, 

Who kneels beside the bed. 
The dying child slow turneth 

Her w^eary, restless head. 

" O mamma ! hear the people 

Hurrying by so fast, 
So happy and so joyful 

That Christmas' come at last ! 

" Don't you remember, mamma, 

The Christmas' long ago, 
Before poor papa left us. 

Before God sent us woe ? 



r.)-t ■ THE CHILD'S CHRISTMAS GIFT. 

" How you would send me early 

Up to my trundle-bed, 
While you and papa waited 

For Santa Claus and his sled? 

"How happy were we, mamma, 

Papa, you, and I, 
When Christmas bells were ringing 

So joyous, merrily. 

"I wish that God, O mamma ! 

Would take us both to-night. 
And we again with papa 

Would spend our Christmas night." 

The mother strove to answer, 
But bowed her stricken head ; 

Fast fell her tears, as raindrops. 
Upon the sick child's bed. 



THE CHILD'S CHRISTMAS GIFT. 105 

But sec ! What is that shadow 

That hovers in the air, 
And with its hands, soft touches 

The heads of the sorrowing pair? 



The morning sunlight streaming 



Through the window-pane, 
Falls on the peaceful faces 
Of two, at home again. 

ChristMx\s Ea'e, 1883. 



100 CHRISTMAS EVE. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 



PEACEFULLY the daylight fades 

Over land and sea ; 
Shadows gather in the glades 
And upon the lea. 

One by one, the stars come out 

In the sky above, 
Seemingly to sing and shout 

Of the Saviour's love. 

Noiselessly the niglit toils on 

To the midnight hour, 
When Christmas bells ring joyous, out 

From the hio-h church tower. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 

Again the shepherds lowly 
Guard their flocks by night, 

AVhile angels, pure and holy, 
Fill the air with light. 

While sweetly, in the ringing 

Of the Christmas bell, 
I hear the angels singing 

In triumph over hell. 

Again I see the manger. 

And the God of all, 
Exposed to cold and danger, 

To raise us from the fall. 

And o'er my heart swift stealing, 
Eepenting waters roll. 

Bringing peace and healing 
To mv troubled soul ; 



107 



108 CHRISTMAS EVE. 

With firm resolve, that never 

Shall I sin again, 
But worship Christ forever, 

The "Peace on earth to men." 



AN INDIAN LEGEND. 101) 



AN INDIAN LEGEND. 



" Laborers digging near tlie new sljating rink to-day unearthed a liuman slieletou. 
It is supposed to be the remains of some Indian who was buried here before the 
white man invaded this region." — McKeesport Daily Press. 



TT7HERE Youghiogheny's mountain stream 
Flows, lovely as a poet's dream, 
'Tween sloping hills ; 
Where broad Monongahela sweeps 
By meadows ftiir and wooded steeps 
And purling rills. 

Here in the years now dead and gone, 
A hunter built his cabin home 
Upon the shore ; 



110 AN INDIAN LEGEND. 

And weirdly through the forests deep, 
On winter nights the winds did sweep, 
And sob and roar. 

And here, when broken winter's sway, 
On summer morn at break of day, 

The winds sang low ; 
The birds the morning sun did greet, 
While on the ear fell soft and sweet 

The river's flow. 

One morn the hunter, seeking game, 
Upon an Indian maiden came, 

Who knelt in prayer ; 
She, startled, would have fled away, 
But he with courteous words did stay. 

And hold her there. 



AN INDIAN LEGEND. Ill 

Lavois, the hunter, lost his heart, 
Ere from the maiden he did part, 

Upon that morn ; 
And she, too, felt that rapturous thrill, 
That sweet unrest which soul doth fill, 

When love is born. 

And often in the summer days, 
They met by stealth, in hidden ways, 

And forests dim ; 
For fiercely did the maiden's sire 
The paleface hate, and vengeance dire 



Had sworn 'gainst him. 



One night, as bright the moonlight fell 
On wooded height :ind shaded dell. 
And rippling wave, 

8 



112 AN INDIAN LEGEND. 

Upon the outskirts of the wood, 
Lavois before sweet Dove Wing stood, 
Her hand to crave. 

'' O Dove Wing ! oh, my wild flower sweet ! 
M}^ heart lies bleeding at thy feet, 

Pierced through with love. 
Oh, be my radiant star of light. 
My helpmate in the daily strife, 

My own, my love." 

Then spake the maiden soft and low : 
" My heart, Lavois, is thine, I know, 



And has been long ; 



Yet Avould I leave my father's side. 
To be thy own too willing bride, 
'T would do thee wrons;. 



AN INDIAN LEGEND. 113 

" For fierce as storm on mountain height, 
And cruel as the frosts that blight, 

Is father's hate ; 
And if I 'd leave his home for thee, 
Thy life would be the penalty, — 

So fierce his hate. 

"Then, too, thou know'st we cannot wed. 
Until the waters bathe my head 
From priestly hands." 

"'Tis true thy sire the paleface hates. 
And his wild heart with joy dilates, 

To do him harm ; 
But yonder lies my trusty boat, 
And guarded by the night, we '11 float 

Beyond his ai'm. 



114 AN INDIAN LEGEND. 

"And where the Beautiful Kiver flows, 
There in the fortress, safe from foes, 

We '11 speak our vows, 
And Holy Church will wash away 
Thy primal stain, — do not delay. 

My own loved spouse." 
Dove Wing gave her hand to him ; 
" I follow thee, my lord; my king," 

She simply said. 

But, hark ! whence comes that twanging sound, 
And, see, the maid falls to the ground. 

With painful moan. 
Dove Wing's father, lurking near. 
His heart alive with jealous fear, 

Suspicious grown, 



AN INDIAN LEGEND. 115 

Had heard the lovers' plan to flee, 
And from the covert of a tree, 

Had launched a dart ; 
But anger shook his brawny arm, 
And that which meant the hunter harm, 

Pierced Dove Wing's heart. 

Fierce as the tiger robbed of young, 
So on the savage Lavois sprung. 

With o-leamino: knife ; 
Fierce was the struggle, fierce and brief, 
Then heavily fell the Indian chief, 

Bereft of life. 

Then flino;ino: down his grory blade, 
The hunter turned unto the maid. 
With anxious eyes ; 



116 AN INDIAN LEGEND. 

And kneeling by the maiden's side, 
" Oh, my loved spouse ! " he wildly cried, 
"Look up, arise." 

Then slowly Dove Wing's eyelids part. 
And her sad olance to Lavois' heart 

Pierced sharp and keen ; 
And struggling hard for speech, she said : 
"O Lavois, pour upon my head 

The sacred stream ! " 

Unto the river flowing near. 

The hunter, urged by love and fear. 

Swiftly sped ; 
And soon returned with beaver filled 
With sparkling water, which he spilled 

On Dove Wing's head ; 



AN INDIAN LEGEND. 117 

And slowly made the sacred sign, 
And spake the words of life divine 

With heavy sighs ; 
With smile to him of tenderest love, 
The soul of Dove Wing passed above, 

Beyond the skies. 

Through all the long hours of that night. 
As one bereft of sense and sight 

And power of speech. 
The hunter knelt, with bended head. 
Beside the form of his loved dead 

Upon the beach. 

Then when the long night passed away, 
And in the east the coming day 
Began to break, 



118 AN INDIAN LEGEND. 

The hunter started, as from sleep, 
Upraised his bended head, sighed deep, 
And seemed t' awake. 

Then seeing Dove Wing lying dead, 
He raised his hands unto his head, 

Dumfounded, dazed ; 
Then quick as sweeps the rushing wind, 
The awful truth burst on his mind, 

As still he gazed. 

" God of heaven ! " fierce he cried. 
And flung himself l)y Dove Wing's side 

In wild despair ; 
"O God of heaven, hear my cry. 
And let me with sweet Dove Wing die, 



Her lone grave share." 




A BISHOP, MITRED, STANDS AMONG THEM THERE. 



AN INDIAN LEGEND. 119 

Then when the morning grew apace, 
He sought a quiet, shady place, 

To lay his bride ; 
And by the ever-mourning wave, 



Beneath a tree he duo* a orave 



Deep and wide. 

And bore poor Dove AYing's body there, 
"With many a kiss and many a pra3'er 

And bitter moans ; 
Then lowered it in this house so dark. 
And gently covered it with bark 

And heavy stones ; 

And filled the grave of his loved dead. 
And placed a rude cross at her head, 
To bless her sleep. 



120 AN INDIAN LEGEND. 

Then falling on bis knees beside 
The new-made grave, he loudly cried 
In anguish deep : 

"No more, O Dove Wing ! nevermore 
Shall thy glad footsteps, as of yore, 

Bring joy to me ; 
But lone and friendless I must go, 
My heart a prey to bitter woe 

And misery. 

"The days shall drag as weary years ; 



The nights be filled with bitter tears 



And fruitless dread. 
And every hour I '11 live again 
The anguish of that moment ^vhen 

Thy spirit fled. 



AN INDIAN LEGEND. 121 

"Yet like a star o'er wind-swept sea, 
Tliis hope shall ease my misery 

And cheer my heart ; 
That when my pilgrimage is o'er, 
I '11 meet thee on that other shore , 

No more to part." 

Slowly and with saddened mien. 
The hunter left the mournful scene 



Of this great woe. 



The forest sighed o'er Dove Wing's grave 



There rose from out the rippling wave 
A requiem low. 

In after years a thrifty town 
Upon the river's l)ank had grown 
And spread around. 



122 AN INDIAN LEGEND. 

Here, on an Indian summer day, 
Laborers, digging in the clay, 
A skeleton found ; 

And wondering whose these bones might be, 
They dug a new grave reverently 

Beside the way. 
And here, where trade goes thundering by. 
The Ijones of Dove Wing patiently 

Await the day. 



THE AUTUMN EVENING. 123 



THE AUTUMN EVENING. 



OADLY dies the autumn day, 

In moaning winds and sunset gray ; 
The forest trees, with branches bare, 
Upraise their arms as though in prayer, 
While at their feet the dead leaves lie 
Hushed and sad and silently. 

The gray squirrel from his dizzy height 
Perceives the fast approaching night, 
And with quick and startled leap. 
Scrambles to his nest and sleep, 
While deep within the wood is heard 
The plaintive cry of the midnight bird. 



124 THE AUTUMN EVENING. 

Now just above the western hills, 
The dark clouds part, and sunlight fills 
The forest, and the saddened scene 
Is glorified in the golden sheen 
Of the setting sun. 

So, sweetly on my saddened life. 
Dark with sickness and with strife. 
There falls the sunlight of God's love, 
With hope that in His home above, 
When life and sorrow both be past, 
My weary feet will rest at last. 



AUTUMN. 125 



AUTUMN. 



[Written on a Sunday, in the woods above St. Stephen's Church, Hazlewood.] 

TTOW sad, yet glorious, is thy short-lived reign ! 

On every hill thy flaming banners gleam 
So bright and gay ; yet, as the hectic flush. 
Sure presage of the dark and silent tomb. 
Of all the seasons of the changing year, 
I love thee. Autumn, best of all. 
How sweet and soothing are thy dreamy days. 
When o'er the valley hangs thy purple haze. 



126 AUTUMN. 

And the languid wind scarce stirs the fallen leaves. 

How our poor hearts, tossed by conflicting thoughts, 

And weary with the fury of life's storm, 

Grow calm and tranquil 'neath thy saddened rule. 

And casting off the cares and joys of life. 

Learn from thy lips the fate of all mankind. 

Thy bright and gorgeous banners soon shall lie 

Deep buried 'neath the coming winter's snow, 

And the sweet days which now enfold the land 

In lovers' clasp, shall droop and fade away. 

E'en so with man, who in his pride and strength 

Forgets that he is but a child of time. 

And that the day which opes so bright for him 

May close upon his dead and mangled form. 

His riches fled, and house and lands laid waste. 



AUTUMN. 127 

All, all must die, the rich and poor alike ; 

The king raised high upon his golden throne. 

And the poor peasant in his lowly hut ; 

All, all must pass again unto the dust 

From whence they sprung. 

Where are the kings and warriors, poets. 

And the long line of great, illustrious men 

Who 've lived since our great Father made the world ? 

The countless millions who have trod the earth 

Since Adam ate the fated fruit ? 

Fallen like thy leaves, O Autumn ! and mouldering into 

dust. 
Did we but often ponder on this truth, 
TJiCit ive must die, and that our bodies, Avhich 
AVe pamper so, and clothe in finest garb, 

9 



128 AUTUM^f. 

Would one day be the food of worms, — 

Think you that we would pass our fellow-man 

In scorn because his coffers were not filled 

With lustful gold, or that upon the sea 

Of life, tossed fiercely by tempestuous waves. 

And beaten down by cruel storms, he drifts 

A sad and helpless wreck? 

Nay, rather would Ave not with humble feet 

Walk meekly dow^n the path of life, and know, 

Without our loving Father's care, that we 

Would also sink beneath the storm ? 

So let us often ponder on this thought. 

That toe must die. And then our lives will be, 

As are the autumn leaves, bright and glorious 

With the lijrht of Christian deeds. 



AUTUMN. 129 

Then, when the autumn of our life shall come, 
And our last day have dawned upon the earth, 
When we must render back again to God 
The soul he gave to us in sacred trust, 
Then, sweet and peaceful as this autumn day. 
Our soul shall pass from earth and care, away. 



130 ALL-HALLOW-E'EN. 



ALL-HALLOW-E'EN. 



\ LL-IIALLOW-E'EN has come again, 

And, in the distant woodland glen, 
The merry squirrels with chattering great 
Resolve the night to celebrate. 

Upon a log which lieth near, 
Where purling waters ripple clear, . 
The squirrels have spread their festive board 
With all the bounteous woods afford. 



ALL-HALLOW-E'EN. 131 

There, in the centre, is a mound 
Of largest nuts that can be found, — 
The butternut with coat so sleek, 
And hazel-nut with face so meek ; 

The walnut and the hickory, too. 
And many strange to me and you, 
Whde round the tal)le, purple grapes 
Lie piled in odd fantastic shapes. 

Above, the lovely queen of night 
Lends to the feast her silver light, 
A^Tiile sweetly 'mongst the forest trees 
Is heard the music of the breeze. 

And now the squirrels come trooping down 
In coats of gray and coats of brown. 



132 ALL-HALLOW-E'EN. 

And soon nil gather at the board, 
Where, after quiet is restored, 

An ancient squirrel, in coat of gray. 
Lifts up his hands and 'gins to pray, 
And every little squirrel there 
Bows down his head and joins in prayer, 

At first the ancient squirrel in gray 
Holds firm and undisputed sway. 
And at a look or ft'own ft'om him 
The squirrels cease their chattering. 

But when thev all bei^in to eat . 
The luscious grapes and nuts so sweet, 
Their little hearts so fill with glee, 
They laugh and chatter merrily. 



ALL-HALLOW-E'EN, 138 

No more they bow to Ancient Gray, 

But spring upon the board for phiy ; 

And round and round, with hands enclasped. 

They dance until the night is past, 

When they all scamper to their l)eds. 

With wearv le^s and achins: heads. 



134 WOMEN'S TEAES. 



WOMEN'S TEAES. 



ll/TORE powerful than the sword or pen, 
More potent than the frowns of men, 
More touching than a lover's sighs, 
Are the tears that flow from women's eyes. 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 135 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 



TN a little village, far away removed 

From the noise and bustle of this restless world, 
Dwelt Nicholas Louden. 
His cottage stood beneath the shadow of 
A giant oak, upon wdiose branches in 
The summer-time the robins built their nests. 
The yard stretched downward to a little stream, 
Which through the long, still summer days filled all 
The air with babbling laughter ; 
The roses clambered up the porch, and to 



133 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

The gables of the cottuge. 

Here in this humble cot, with wife and child, 

Lived Nicholas Louden. 

He had been married just two years before ; 

The fruit thereof, a baby girl, with long, 

Bright golden curls, and sunny, laughing eyes, 

A sunbeam cast athwart his shadowed path ; 

His wife, comely and fair, yet one not meet 

For his poetic nature. 

She saw no beauty in the field, nor heard 

The many voices of the whispering forest, 

But found her pleasure only in the dance 

And glitter of the ball-room ; 

Yet she was good and true, and loved her lord, 

And was a saving housewife. 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 137 

Of niediiun height and frail was Nicholas Louden; 
His face no one would say was beautiful ; 
Yet there was that about his features and 
Within his saddened eyes, that seemed to lift 
Him up above his fellow-men. His brow 
Was broad and white ; 

His hair, dark as the stormy clouds, fell down 
Upon his shoulders. 

The head man of the town was Richard Dent. 
His house stood on the outskirts, large and grand. 
And was surrounded on all sides by fields 
And smiling meadow lands. 

Near to the house, his mill, which ground the flour 
For all the village. 
Here labored Nicholas Louden, as a clerk. 



138 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

And keeper of the books for Eicliard Dent 



And often did he work till late at night ; 



For Richard was a hard and cruel man, 
And would by every means try to increase 
The labor of his servants, and prolong 
The hour of their departure from the mill. 

Yet one soft spot there was within his heart, - 
He loved, as his own life, his only child, 
A girl of twelve, and for her sake he planned 
And labored to increase his store of wealth ; 
And just one year before the time 
That Nicholas Louden had gone there to work, 
He'd sent her to a distant convent school. 
To have her reared as now became his wealth 
And station in the toAvn. 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 139 

His wife luid died the year his child was born, 
And her a'reen grave, surmounted by a shaft, 
Lay just beside the chapel door. 
And here his child, before he sent her to 
The convent school, was w^ont to come and say 
Her prayers above her mother's grave ; for e'en 
AVhen Genevieve was a little child, 
She loved to think of those who 'd gone l)efore. 
And often at some nameless grave her nurse 
Would find her praying for the soul of him 
Who slept beneath. 

And slowly in the quiet town the 3^ears 
Toiled on, till Genevieve six years at school 
Had been ; and now within the month of June, 
She was to come aoain unto her home. 



140 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

And every morn the villagers looked to see 
The lumbering coach go by and her within. 
Nicholas Louden, bent with many cares, 
And weary with his long and ceaseless work, 
Heard not nor cared for village talk, and so 
Knew not that Genevieve was to return. 
Until one eve he met her at the church. 
The sun w^as sinking doAvn behind the hills, 
And all the w^estern sky one sea of gold ; 
The birds were joining with the Holy Church 
In vesper hymn to God, and passion seemed 
To have fled away from earth. 
The heart of Nicholas Louden filled with peace, 
That peace of God which passeth human ken, 
And as the " O Salutaris ! " floated through 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 141 

The quaint old church, his heart o'eiflowcd \vith love 
For God and man. 

'Twas as he slowly left this holy place, 
His eyes first saw the face of Genevieve. 
Her father at the door, proud, introduced 
His child to Nicholas and his wife. 
As soon as Nicholas looked into her eyes, his heart 
Stirred strangely in his breast, and all along 
His homeward way her face did rudely break 
Upon his thoughts. 
But now the turmoil of another day 
Dispelled all thoughts save those of work : and as 
The days went by, with Genevieve seen no more. 
Her face fled from his mind and haunted him not. 
Until one day, she, coming to the mill 



142 NICHOLAS LOUDEN^. 

To see the work, was given to NichoJas' care ; 
And as he took her through the various rooms, 
They wandered from the theme of flour and grain 
To' poetry and books, and to the grand 
In nature ; and he found her mind, as his, 
Loved soHtude, the silence of the woods, 
And nature in her many changing forms. 

Then often after, by her father's side, 
Did she come to the mill. 

In Nicholas' heart, not conscious of the thing himself, 
There grew a strong and tender love for her. 
So that the world seemed bright when she was near, 
And dark and cheerless when she was away. 

But Nicholas, busied at his daily toil. 
Stopped not to question of his heart the fact 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 143 

His Lome was losing all its charms for him, 
And Genevieve's bright face and chestnut hair 
Was oft'ner in his mind than thoughts of her 
To whom his troth was plighted unto death. 
And thus, unconscious of the chain that was 
So swiftly binding him within its folds, 
He loved to see his wife and Genevieve 
Become fast friends, and thought within himself: 
She '11 teach my wife to think on higher things, 
And change her to another Genevieve. 
And Genevieve, she, quick as women are 
In reading their own hearts, well knew her heart 
Was Nicholas Louden's, and she oft resolved 
To shun his presence, in the hope that thus 
His absence would abate this sinful love. 

10 



144 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

But when she saw again his saddened face 

And heard his tender voice, her good resolves 

"Would fade away as mists before the sun ; 

And then again, she thought, he loves me not. 

And if his presence I would shun, 

He, wondermg at my actions, might surmise 

And learn my secret. 

Thus love and pride combined to fight against 

Her good resolves ; and she, though good, was weak 

As Avomen are, and could not both subdue her love and 

pride. 
And though she struggled bravely 'gainst this sin. 
She felt her heart, yea, e'en her very soul 
Belonged to Nicholas Louden. 
And thus her love, grown stronger than herself, 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 145 

Disdaining her control, betra3'ed itself 

To Nicholas Louden. 

She and Nicholas, with his wife and child, 

"Were raml)ling through the woods one summer's day ; 

And as they passed a clump of birchen trees, 

A monstrous snake craw^led out across their path. 

And raised its shining head as though to spring 

On Genevieve. " O Nicholas, save me ! " loud 

She cried, and threw herself within his arms. 

His snakeship, frightened by her screams, dropped 

down 
His head, and quickly fled away. 
In that wild cry, and Genevieve's pleading eyes, 
Nicholas Louden read that he was loved. 
And in that knowledge also learned that he 



146 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

Eetiirned this love. 

Oh ! what a wave of sorrow and remorse 

Swept o'er his noble heart, when this stern truth 

Broke in upon his soul ; that he, who loved 

His honor far above his very life. 

Should faithless be to her he 'd vowed to love 

And cherish even unto death. 

Down on his heart there fell a gloom as deep 

As that which shrouds the earth before the storm, 

And all the light and beauty seemed to die 

From out the summer day. 

When Nicholas Louden knelt in prayer that night, 
He firm resolved to crush this passion down ; 
But little did he know how strong this love 
Had grown, and what a fierce and bitter fight 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 147 

lie yet must make, ere peace would come again 
Unto his soul. 

Then followed days of strife and niiseiy. 
The more he tried to shun, the oftener did 
It seem he met sweet Genevieve ; and though 
He showed not of his love, by word or look. 
Her presence added fury to the storm 
Which, in his Ijosom, fierce and ceaseless raged 
'Tween duty and 'tween love ; and love would seem 
The stronojer of the two when she Avas near. 
Yet did he bravely fight against this sin, 
And strive to ovei-come this Christless love. 
And change its course from Genevieve to his wife. 
But she, his wife, cared only for the joys 
And senseless whims of fashion, and therefore 



148 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

Hindered more than helped his good resolves ; 
And often would she wound him sore by words 
Of cruel anger. 

And thus the days went by in misery. 
More stern and silent to the outside world 
Grew Nicholas Louden, — yet to wife and child 
More true and tender, his one thought to make 
Their lives one happy, glorious summer day, 
And not like his, a dreary winter's waste. 

One morn his child fell ill, and ere two days 
Had fled, its soul passed unto God. 
When Nicholas Louden knelt beside its bier, 
He felt 't was but the judgment of his God. 
"I have been false to her I swore to love. 
And God has taken my beloved child. 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 149 

O God, Thy ways are just ! " he humbl}' said ; 
" I bow beneath Thy rod." 
How quick his cup of sorrow seemed to fill 
And overflow ; and then he thought, 't is best. 
Her life has been a bright and joyful one. 
And she has gained the crown without the cross. 
And so the sunlight faded "from his path, 
And shadows gathered darker on his Avay. 

AVithin the graveyard of the village church. 
Upon a hillside sloping to the west, 
Nicholas' child was laid ; and here, when day was done, 
And shadows dark and cool fell o'er the earth, 
Nicholas and his wife were wont to come 
And say their prayers above their loved child's grave ; 
For since the death of this, their only chihl. 



150 [NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

Nicholas" wife had lost her love of dress, 
And all the vanities of her olden life, 
And now would often think upon her death. 
And of that other life beyond the tomb. 

Two months had come and gone since Nicholas' child 
Had passed beyond the midnight sea wdiich flows 
Between this life and that wdiich is to come, 
"When now his wife fell sick, and slowly death 
Approached her feverish couch. 
Fierce 'gainst his touch she fought without avail ; 
And so one afternoon, when Nicholas sat 
Beside her couch, and strove to cheer her up, 
She spake ; 

"Nicholas, I fear that my poor life shall end 
To-night. Something doth seem to press m}^ soul 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 151 

Low down, unci tell me that my dream of life 
Is o'er ; so hasten for the minister 
Of God, that I may make my peace before 
I die." 

When Nicholas Louden, leaning o'er her bed, 
Perceived the death dews gathering on her brow. 
He quickly stooped and pressed his lips to hers, 
And hurried for the minister of God. 
Then, when the sun dipped 'neath the western hills, 
And daylight slowly faded from the earth. 
She, strengthened with the rites of Holy Church, 
Passed with the day unto eternity. 

As Nicholas looked upon the silent form 
Of his dead wife, the scales of his self-love 
Dropped from his eyes, and in its hideous phase 



152 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

He saw his crime ; and, crushed with sorrow and 
Remorse, he vowed to spend his future life 
In prayer and penance, and in holy deeds. 

Then, when two days had passed, his wife was laid 
Beside her babe, within the churchyard gates. 

Then slowly passed the days in daily cares ; 
But when the quiet of the evening fell, 
Unto the churchyard Nicholas took his way. 
And knelt beside the graves of wife and child, 
And j)rayed most fervently for their repose. 

One evening, as he entered at the gate. 
He saw a maiden kneeling by the tombs, 
Her hands upraised and clasped, as though in prayer. 
And face uplifted to the bending skies. 
A thrill of pleasure flashed through Nicholas' veins ; 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 153 

For in the form, low kneeling at the graves, 

His lover eyes discerned sweet Genevieve. 

He started forward, as to reach her side ; 

Then quickly stopped, and pressed his hand unto 

His head, like one struck with a sudden pain. 

And slowly sank into a rustic seat. 

" My vow, my vow," he said ; " O God, give strength ! " 

Then had he fled from out the cemetery grounds, 

But that he feared he would be seen by Genevieve. 

Like one who stands within a city's street 

In rags and hunsjer on a winter's nijiht. 

And looks into the palaces of the rich, 



And sees the fire, and smells the hungering scent 



Of cooking food ; 

So Nicholas sat and gazed on Genevieve, 



154 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 



His heart a-hungering for the love he knew 



Was his, but for the wall that he had reared 
By his own acts. 

And now he heard his name on Genevieve's lips, 
Which, as 't was said, made roses on her cheeks : 
" O Nicholas, Nicholas ! How my inmost heart 
Yearns for thy love, thy sweet companionship. 
O God ! forgive my sin in loving him 
When he was wed, and let us yet be one." 
What awful anguish pierced to Nicholas' heart, 
As fell these words from ont his loved one's lips. 
" O God ! " he moaned, "I cannot live without 
Sweet Genevieve ! I cannot pluck this love 
From out my heart, unless with it my life. 
So if I claim her not, I cannot live, 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 155 

And I will be my own dark murderer." 

And then his angel whispered, "Rouse, be strong ! 

For he who sins must suffer for his crime : 

Such is the law of God. 

And then thy vow, remember well thy vow." 



Fierce was the strug'gle in his soul ; great beads 



Of sweat stood out and rolled from off' his brow, 
And in his anguish he sank on the ground. 
Now Genevieve rose, and slowly passed the spot 
Where Nicholas lay, her footsteps sounding on 
His ear like clods thrown on his coffin lid. 
Awdiile he lay, prone ffat upon the ground ; 
Then roused himself, and struggled to the church, 
And humbly kneeling at the altar rail. 
Poured out his soul to God in earnest prayer : 



156 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

"O Christ, my Saviour ! hearken to my cry ; 
Give me the strength to suffer for my sins, 
And grant me never to forojet mv vow ! 

Holy Mother ! pray for thy poor child, 

And guide his footsteps through the desert wide.' 
Like dews of heaven on the parched earth, 
So God's sweet peace fell on his troubled heart. 
Strong grew his purpose, to devote his life 
To penance for his sin ; and thus he prayed : 
" Father, I vow to Thee my future life ; 
Accept it as a penance for my sin. 

1 will renounce the w^orld, and her I love. 
And give my life to prayer and holy deeds. 
Accept ray sacrifice, O God ! 

And pardon me." 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 157 

And then he turned from the Greut Presence there, 
With peaceful soul, and firm resolve to part 
At once, forever, from sweet Genevieve. 

How lovely seemed the night, as slow he walked 
Back to the cottage where he still did dwell. 
The air was heavy with the breath of flowers, 
For 't was the month of June, the same sweet month 
In which he first had met his Genevieve ; 
The crickets chirped from 'neath the wayside stone ; 
The frogs croaked in the brook, and from the fields 
The ceaseless grasshopper's hum fell on the ear ; 
And soft the landscape stretched beneath the moon. 
The quiet of the scene stirred Nicholas' heart. 
And at his cottage door he turned again, 
To view it o'er. 



158 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

The village church stood dark against the sk}^ 

While at its base the graveyard stretched away, 

The tombstones sleamins^ 'neath the moonlight's sheen 

And one he noticed, rising near the church, 

Which marked the spot where gently slept his wife 

And child. 

A wave of sadness swei)t across his heart, 

And stirred the chords, and tears burst from his eyes. 

" O God, have mercy on my wife and child ! " 

Fell from his lips, while faster rained his tears : 

And then, "Forgive me for the wrong I'v^e done 

To her, my wife, my poor unloved wife." 

And then he turned and oped his cottage door, 
But stopped and looked once more upon the scene, 
Then passed within his house and closed the door. 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 150 

Unto the woman, keeper of his house, 

Who stood withhi the kitchen kneading bread, 

He spake : "Eliza, I will leave this place 

To-morrow, as the sun peeps o'er the hills. 

To thee I give this cottage and the grounds. 

And all within, to do with as thou wilt, 

But ask no reason ; this alone I give, 

That I but do what seems both just and right." 

Then to his room. Eliza ceased her work, 

Took up her lamp, and to her chamber passed ; 

But not to sleep. The thought that she must part 

Forever fi-om this man she 'd learned to love, 

As mother loves her son, tilled her old heart 

With an2;uish keen. 

Beside the open window ot her room 
11 



160 NICHOLAS LOUDEN". 

She sat and listened through the lonely night, 

For fear that Nicholas might soft steal away, 

And she not see his face again. 

When fiiint the dawn appeared in eastern sky. 

Then Nicholas Louden oped his chamber door, 

And with valise in hand, crept down the stairs. 

Eliza heard his step and followed him. 

" O Nicholas, Nicholas, leave us not, I pray ! " 

Eliza cried. ' "^^hat drives thee from thy home?" 

But he : '' Eliza, 't is God's holy will. 

Why dost thou grieve ? I never knew that I 

Had won the favor to be loved by thee." 

And she : "Yes, Nicholas, thou 'st been kind to me, 

And I do love thee with a mother's love. 

Oft have I pitied thy sad loneliness, 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN^. KJl 

And wished another love would hll thy heart, 
Another wife dispel thy saddened moods ; 
And oft to Genevieve Dent have I discoursed, 
In seeming jest, yet serious in my heart. 
That she would set her cap to win thy love ; 
And though she seemed to notice not my words, 
Yet her deep blushes told what fain she'd hid." 
But he : " Enough, enough ! thou wrongest her ; 
So 'Fare thee well,'" he said, and kissed her brow, 
And quickly strode away ; but at the gate 
Stopped to caress his dog, which followed him. 
And now he hears the sound of rumbling wheels, 
And hurries to the street through which the stag'e 
Goes through the town. 
The driver, at a nod from him, draws up, 



162 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

And Nicholas enters. 

Sharp cracks the whip, the horses yet are fresh, 

And the great stage goes thundering through the town. 

Few are astir, and* those at household cares ; 

So, as the stage approaches to the house 

Where Genevieve resides, no fears that she 

Shall see him, flit through Nicholas' mind ; 

No one is seen within the spacious grounds 

Or at the windows as the stage goes by ; 

And Nicholas feels the stronger for this fact, 

For lie yet fears the light of Genevieve's eyes, 

Yet fears to look into her gentle face. 

But, see ! a maiden turns yon skirting hedge 

Just as the coach goes by. She lifts her eyes, 

And Genevieve and Nicholas meet again. 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 163 

She flushes quick ; then sees his travelling dress, 
And all the blood seems rushing to her heart, 
So pale she grows. 

He, flushing scarlet, notes but this, and then 
Her form fades from his sight forevcrmore. 
That night, within an hunil)le convent cell, 
Nicholas Louden told his beads in prayer, 
And ere a year had passed became a monk, 
And known among the rest as Brother James. 
And daily Genevieve gazed down the road 
To see the stage come lumbering into town. 
But vainly looked among the passengers 
For Nicholas' face. 
Eliza, listless at her household cares, 
Would start at every footstep in the street, 



]64 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

And pause and listen for the opening gate. 
E'en Nicholas' dog grew thin, refused to eat, 
And for his master cried the livelong night ; 
And in the day would trot unto the gate, 
Place his front paws high in the paling fence, 
Look up and down the road, and piteous cry ; 
Then slowly, and with drooping head, again 
Back to the porch, where, with his nose between 
His outstretched paws, he 'd lie through all the day, 
And when Eliza passed him in her Avork, 
He 'd lift his great brown eyes unto her face, 
And sadly whine. 

And now the day of rest breaks in the east ; 
And soon the chapel bell calls to the mass 
The faithful in the town and country round. 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 1G5 

Among the worshippers, Eliza sees 
Genevieve Dent within lier pew, alone ; 
And when the mass is o'er, EHza stands 
Outside the chapel door and waits for her. 
With sad, pale face, yet firm and haughty tread, 
Genevieve Dent comes down the narrow aisle. 
Eliza, seeing her proud, haughty air. 
Feared to address her ; but another look 
Served to convince her that this mien was false, 
And hut assumed to hide an aching heart ; 
And so she spake : " jNIiss Genevieve, wilt thou 
Come to my cottage, — I would speak with thee? 
I am alone ; do not deny me this, 
For I would talk of something near my heart." 
"Why, yes, Eliza ; certainly I will," 



1(5(3 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

Spake Genevieve ; then slowly down the road 

Thej^ went, no word from either's lips. 

Tumultuous beat the heart of Genevieve ; 

A thousand fancies flitted through her brain, 

As once again she stepped within the room. 

Where, in the happy days so long ago. 

She and Nicholas' wife had talked and planned, 

Before the shadow of forbidden love 

Had shut the sunlight ever from her life. 

Eliza spoke : " Sit down. Miss Genevieve. 

I wish to ask thy counsel and thy help. 

Six days ago did Nicholas Louden leave his home 

The night before he left he 'd been to see 

The grave of his poor wife, as was his use. 

He was away much longer than his wont ; 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. K)? 

And when he came, his face was very pale. 

And then he said ; 'Eliza, fore thee well, 

For I must leave this place foreverniore.' 

And then this cottage he did give to me 

And all within." Then husky grew her voice, 

And tears rolled down her cheeks unto the floor. 

"And now, Miss Genevieve, what would you do. 

And do you think he will return again? " 

Then Genevieve ; and as she spoke, her voice 

Seemed hard, and sounded strange unto herself: 

"Indeed, I know not ; how can I foretell 

His acts? for he has shunned me since he lost 

His wife and child." 

And then Eliza : " Pardon, me I pray ; 

But I did think, for thee, he left his home ; 



168 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

That he had asked thy hand and been refused, 

For oft I 've heard him murmur in his sleep, 

Thy name." 

Soft grew the heart of Genevieve ; her pride 

Dissolved, as snow beneath the sun's warm rays, 

And with a flood of tears, she bowed her head 

Upon the window-sill. Eliza rose. 

And put her arm about poor Genevieve's waist. 

And kissed the tear-drops from her face. 

Then Nicholas' dog came in the room, and stuck 

His nose betvveen the pair, and whined. 

" Poor dog, poor dog ! " sighed Genevieve ; " e'en thou 

Dost mourn for thy poor master's face." 

Then to the room where Nicholas slept they went. 

Here everything was as it had been left 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 1(39 

By hira upon tlie morning he had gone. 
Upon the hearth a pile of ashes lay, 
Remains of letters burned by him that morn ; 
There drawers were standing open, hei'e some clothes 
Lay on a chair, some collars on a stand ; 
The bed, alone, was undisturbed, for he 
Had slept not in it on that night. 
A marble crucifix, which was his wife's. 
And which had hung above the mantelpiece, 
Alone was gone, of all the fixtures of the room. 
" Why here, Eliza ! " broke from Genevieve, — 
" Here is a letter, and it is for me ! " 
Then eagerly she grasped the missive up. 
And tore it open with quick, trembling hands. 
Eliza watched her closely while she read. 



170 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

At first a flush of fire lit up her face, 

And then the color faded from her cheeks, 

Until the marble on the dresser there 

Was not more white. 

The letter dropped from out her trembling hands, 

And with a moan she sank upon the floor. 

Eliza raised her, bore her to the bed. 

Threw water in her face, and chafed her hands ; 

And soon her dark eyes opened once again. 

In a short time she raised up from the bed, 

And picked the letter up, which on the floor still lay. 

" Miss Genevieve, sit down and rest thyself, 

Until you gain more strength," Eliza said. 

" No, no, Eliza ; I must now go home." 

And'then Eliza : " Dost the letter say 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 171 

That Nicholas will come back?" 
" No ; Nicholas has abjured the world, and joined 
A band of monks, so the letter sa3^s. 
And he will ne'er return to you or me." 
Then Genevieve slipped the letter 'neath her dress, 
And slowly homeward walked. 
Within the spacious grounds about her home. 
She sought a quiet nook, again to read 
The letter o'er, and thus it ran : 
"Dearest Genevieve, thou knowest that our love 
Was sown in crime : for then I had no rijrht 
To love but my own wife, my poor dead wife ! 
The more I think f)f this, the greater seems 
My crime ; so I have vowed to spend my life 
In convent walls, in penance for my sin. 



172 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

For weeks and months I 've struggled 'gainst my 

love, — 
To pluck it from my heart ; but all in vain. 
And when, last night, within the churchyard grounds, 
I saw thee praying at my poor wife's grave. 
My heart rebelled, and struggled to be free, 
To fly to thee, and there to find its rest. 
And so I clearly saw but these two paths : 
To go away, and bind myself by vow ; 
Or to remain, and yield unto my heart. 
The latter course I could not take, e'en though 
'T was strewn with sweetest roses of thy love. 
And with all earthly happiness to me. 
Because, beside the form of my dead wife, 
I 'd sworn to pass my life in prayers for her. 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 173 

In penance for my sin. 

Then, too, l)ecause our love, conceived in crime, 

AYould likely cause the anger of our Lord 

To smite us both. 

And, Genevieve, my love for thee is such 

That I v^ould bear all ills of this poor life, 

All temporal losses, e'en the loss of thee, 

To save thy fair young life from any woe. 

Think of me as one dead ; mourn not for me ; 

And yet thy loving heart will find a mate 

]\Iore fit than I, across whose life there falls 

No shadow of a crime of other days. 

And now, sweet Genevieve, good-by, good-by ! 

No more I '11 meet thee in this mortal life ; 

But I would ask thee, now and then, to pray 



174 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

That God would pardon mc, would give me peace. 

And when, in weary vigils passed in prayer, 

In rigorous fasts, and charities to the poor, 

My soul grows pure, and free from earthly taint. 

Then often will I pray to God for thee. 

And then presume my prayers be gracious heard." 

Six months had passed since Nicholas left ; 
And Genevieve grew paler, day by day. 
No sigh escaped her lips ; no external sign 
Told to the world the secret of her life. 
She had a cheerful word for every one ; 
A happy smile lit up her lovely face ; 
And ne'er by word or look did she disclose 
The blighting sorrow eating at her heart. 
But when alone, away from prying eyes, 



NrcHOLAS LOUDE^^. 175 

A shade of sorrow blotted out the smile, 
And she would clasp hei* hands and heavily sigh, 
And murmur, " God have mercy ! let me die." 
All idle time she spent within the church, 
For there alone she found surcease from pain ; 
For as a mother to a sorrowing child. 
So Holy Church dispels the haunting fears, 
And wipes the tear-drops from her children's eyes. 

Slow dragged the weary Winter, and the Spring 
Just roused from her long sleep, when Genevieve, 
Grown weaker day by day, took to her bed. 
And slowly ebbed her fair young life away. 

It was a lovely evening in the month 
So dear to Mary, when the summons came. 
Through all the morning Genevieve had lain 

12 



176 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

Ill deadly stupor. 

Beside the bed her father sat as one distracted. 

Whatever love was in his stony heart 

Had twined itself around his only child ; 

And now that he must lose her drove him mad. 

" O God ! O God ! " he cried, " wilt Thou not save 

My only child, my only joy in life?" 

Just then the eyes of Genevieve unclosed, 

And low she whispered : " Father, is the priest 

Not here?" " Not now, my daughter ; but he said 

He 'd soon return. I think I hear him now^ 

Speak to the servant in the hall below. 

Yes, here he comes. " 

An aged man now entered at the door, 

The seal of sanctity upon his brow. 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 177 

'Tis true, his features were not handsome ; yet 
His holy soul looked from his ej^es, and threw 
• A lofty grandeur o'er his face. 

His hair, w^hite as the snow, fell o'er his neck, 

And seemed to add a majesty to his mien. 

" God bless all here ! " he said, and made the sign ; 

Then walked unto the bed, took Genevieve's hand, 

And for a moment looked into her face ; 

Then said : " My child, God wills that all shall die ; 

And — " "Yes, father," interrupted Genevieve; 

'' I know my hour has come. Fear not to say 

"What well I see is written on thy face ; 

For death to me is but release from pain. 

For well thou knowest the story of my life. 

To thee, alone, I oped my inmost heart; 



178 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

And thou didst teach me to upbear my cross, 
That cross so well deserved for my sin. 
But I would now confess my sins to thee, 
That God would show me mercy when I go." 
Then to the father, who, with bended head, 
Knelt near the door, the priest, in low voice, said : 
"Please quit the room a moment, till I hear 
Thy child's confession." 

And then the priest sat down 
Beside the bed, and humbly Genevieve 
Confessed her sins. 

Then, too, the father, at the priest's command, 
Keturned again, and knelt beside the bed ; 
And took his daughter's hand in his, the while 
The priest administered the Holy Bread, 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 179 

And gave to Genevieve the lust rites of the Church. 
Then, when the priest had finished, he sat down 
Beside the bed. 

The village doctor, who had tried in vain 
His skill on Genevieve, quick entered now. 
One look into the patient's face, and then 
He too sat down beside the watchers there. 
No word was spoken ; that great sense of awe 
Which fills the heart when we look on the face 
Of one who 's j^assing through that awful change 
Of life to death, checked every rising word. 
Upon a little stand beside the bed 
Two candles burned ; a crucifix stood between. 
Outside, the moon had risen, and her light 
Streamed throuiih the windows full on 



180 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

Genevieve's face. 

The curtains at the casement heavily stirred 

Within the air ; the rippHng of the stream, 

The sighing of the wind among the trees, 

And all the voices of the night came through 

The open windows, to the watchers' ears. 

Now Genevieve turned her head, and faintly spoke : 

"Dear father, call the servants. I would say 

A word to them before I die." 

Then when they came, she took each by the hand, 

And said : " Good-by, good-by ! God bless you all. 

And don't forget to often pray for me." 

Then to her father : " One request I make. 

It is my last ; I know thou 'It not refuse." 

And he : "Not if it were my very life." 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 181 

"Then, father, once a month have masses said 
For the repose of Nicholas Louden's wife." 
Then spake the priest : " She 's passmg fast away. 
Kneel down and say the litany for her, 
That she may have a happy passage hence." 

And then he rose, 
Took Genevieve's hand, and stood beside the l)ed. 
While whispered Genevieve : "Into Thy hands, 
O God ! my spirit I commend this night. 
Have mercy, Jesus, on my soul ! " 
Then, while the priest above her head did make 
The sacred sign, a tremor shook her frame, 
And then a shadow passed across her face, 
And she had gone unto the judgment seat. 

Five years have passed since Nicholas Louden left 



182 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

His native village, for a poor monk's cell. 

Among the brothers he was noted for 

His strict obedience to the slightest rule, 

His great humility, his love for prayer, 

And for his charities unto the poor. 

And when the abbot passed to his reward. 

The brothers asked that Nicholas take his place 

But he, remembering his former sin, 

And loathing it the more as years went by. 

Declined the honor with, " I am not fit ; 

Take one more worthy." 

But still they pressed him to accept, and said : 

"Thou art the worthiest among us all." 

But he was firm, and so another ruled 

The humble monks. 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 183 

And now the blessed Christmas time drew near, 
And Nichohis lay upon a bed of pain. 
One cold and stormy day he went abroad 
To l)ear relief unto the neighboring poor, 
And meeting on the way a man ill clad, 
Has giA^en his own cloak to cover him, 
And thus took cold, and now lies sick to death. 

'Tis Christmas eve ; the monks through all the day 
Have been within the chapel, gracing it 
With boughs of palm. 

One brother had been left in Nicholas' room 
To Avatch him, and to give him medicine ; 
But now he leaves the room, and Nicholas 
Is alone. 
He lies upon his pallet, gazing out 



184 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

Upon the wintry sky and snoAv-clad earth. 

The wind, which blew a gale through all the day, 

Is sinking as the evening shadows fall, 

And now moans sadly through the leafless trees, 

And whistles round the convent walls. 

Now Nicholas speaks : " O God ! I thank thee for 

Thy mercy unto me ; that Thou hast In-ought 

Me to this harbor, from the stormy sea 

And perils of the worldly life ; 

That Thou didst strengthen me, upon that night 

So long ago, and brought me here to peace. 

How little now appears the sacrifice 

Which seemed so crushing then. 

And now I feel Thou hast forgiven me. 



And soon will grant me everlasting rest." 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 185 

And now the monk returned, and with him came 
Tlie abbot, bearing in his hands the Bread 
Of Life. 

Behind him walk the monks, ranged two by two. 
Then all kneel down, except the abbot, mIio 
Approaches to the bed, and thus to Nicholas speaks : 
" My son, I fear that thou art growing w^orse ; 
So 't would be well that thou confess thy faults. 
And, too, receive the last rites of the church." 
And Nicholas : "Yes, father, such is my wish." 
In a few moments Nicholas' sins arc tokl. 
For his were such that we within the workl 



Would think them but good deeds. 



The while the monks recited in low voice 

The church's hist prayers for her departing sons, 



186 NICHOLAS LOUDEN". 

The abljot gives the last great rite 

Of Extreme Unetion to the dying monk, 

Who bids them all farewell, with "Brothers dear. 

Weep not for me ; my sufferings are o 'er. 

And when the clock tolls out the midnight hour. 

Join, as thy wont, to-night in song of praise 

To Christ, the new-born King, and let thy hearts 

O'erflow with joy, and sorrow not for me." 

Then, with profession of his faith, he sleeps. 

To wake no more within this mortal life. 

'T is midnight in the town 
Where Nicholas dwelt, so many years ago. 
The harvest moon rides in a cloudless sky. 
And bathes, in her weird light, both hill and dale : 
The moonlight lingers fondly round the tombs. 



NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 187 

Within the graveyard of the village church, 
Three graves lie side by side, upon a hill, 
And these the moonlight seems to touch 
With gentlest hand. 

On the first stone, carved deeply, runs the tale : 
"Marie, Nicholas Louden's wife." .Then, too: 
"Lucille, his well beloved child." 
Upon the next, the legend, "Genevieve Dent." 
The other, "Richard Dent, aged sixty-five." 
Far from this spot, within a lonely dell, 
A monastery rears its walls unto the sky. 
Upon its roof the mystic moonlight sleeps. 
And casts great shadows on the grassy sward. 
No sound disturbs the stillness of the night, 
Save the low voices of the forest near. 



188 NICHOLAS LOUDEN. 

Back from the monastery, on a rising knoll, 
Within a well-kept hedge, the graveyard lies 
Where sleep the monks, with folded hands, and wait 
The resurrection morn. 

An humble cross, with name engraved thereon 
Of him w4io sleeps beneath, marks out each grave. 
In a far corner, 'neath a mighty oak, 
An iron cross above a grassy mound 
Proclaims that here another brother sleeps. 
The moonlight falls in broken wavelets through 
The leafy branches of the mighty oak 
Upon the humble grave, and gilds the name 
Upon the metal cross, — "Brother James." 



